A  QUESTION 

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A    QUESTION    OF   TIME 


A   QUESTION    OF   TIME 


BY 

GERTRUDE  FRANKLIN  ATHERTON 

AUTHOR  OF 

"WHAT   DREAMS   MAY   COME,"  "HERMIA  SUYDAM,"  "LOS  CERRITOS," 
ETC.,    ETC. 


"O  God,  \ve  know  not  yet, 
If  bliss  itself  is  not  young  misery, 
With  fangs  swift  growing."— GEORGE  ELIOT. 


NEW  YORK 
JOHN    W.    LOVELL    COMPANY 

150  WORTH  STREET,  COR.  MISSION  PLACE 


COPYRIGHT,  1891, 

BY 
UNITED  STATES  BOOK  COMPANY 


WITH   APOLOGIES  TO   THE   SHADE  OF 

OLIVER  MADDOX-BROWN 


A  QUESTION  OF  TIME. 


I. 

SHE  was  the  youngest  woman  in  the 
room,  and  she  was  forty-six.  Neither  the 
word  passee,  nor  yet  that  one  of  subtler  in- 
sult, well-preserved,  could  be  applied  to  her. 
She  was  young,  as  many  women  of  her  age 
are,  because  trouble  had  scarcely  brushed 
her  in  passing,  nor  the  world  scorched  her 
with  its  hot  breath;  because  no  illness  had 
come  to  rift  her  perfect  health,  nor  ill-placed 
passion  to  consume  and  wither.  In  a  word, 
she  had  never  lived,  and  a  certain  coquetry, 
too  light  for  discontent,  yet  strong  enough 
to  guard  and  enhance  her  beauty,  made  her 
still  look  like  a  flower  half  bloomed,  then 
passed  by  and  forgotten  of  Time. 

She  rarely  failed  to  take  part  in  the  social 


6  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

gatherings  of  her  neighbors,  and  was  never 
neglected  for  younger  beauties.  To-night 
she  was  surrounded  by  several  men,  and  al- 
though she  said  little,  and  her  fascination 
was  not  of  the  Circean  order,  yet  by  an 
unconscious  art  she  was  each  man's  second 
self  as  she  listened  to  him.  She  was  not 
brilliant,  but  she  understood;  that  was  her 
undying  charm. 

Her  loveliness  had  never  shone  with  a 
softer  radiance.  The  silken  hair  of  russet 
browns  and  gold  curled  about  her  oval  face 
and  lay  in  a  shining  coil  at  the  base  of  her 
head.  Here  and  there  a  silveren  hair  cat  its 
stern  way,  but  was  worn  with  a  grace  which 
made  it  appear  a  jewel  wrung  from  Time's 
unwilling  hand.  Her  skin  may  not  have 
been  as  purely  white  as  when  she  had  spoken 
her  marriage  vows,  twenty -five  years  before, 
but  the  delicate  color  made  it  look  fresh  and 
fair.  Her  pink  mouth  was  like  a  bursting 
azalea,  but  there  was  firmness  and  decision 
in  the  straight  nose  and  finely  moulded  chin. 
In  her  clear  blue  eyes  were  little  yellow 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  7 

specks :  they  were  like  lakes  lying  calmly 
above  golden  sand  and  covered  with  a 
thin  layer  of  ice.  Innocence  looked  out  of 
them,  almost  ignorance  of  all  worldly  knowl- 
edge and  of  self;  but  a  fine  intelligence  was 
there  also,  and  at  times  the  dreaming  half- 
sad  expression  usually  seen  but  in  the  eyes 
of  young  girls.  Only  a  small  square  of  her 
neck  was  visible,  and  her  black  gown  was 
plain  and  cut  by  a  master-hand. 

"  There  is  Mark  Saltonstall,"  said  the 
youngest  of  the  men  about  her.  "  Consider- 
ing that  he  is  the  guest  of  the  evening  he  is 
rather  late.  It  is  a  pity  that  genius  cannot 
be  at  its  best  at  an  '  evening,'  and  that  we 
must  be  content  to  merely  look  at  him." 

"  He  is  ugly,"  she  said.  But  she  looked 
again. 

"  He  is  not  beautiful ;  certainly  not.  Even 
his  unique  imagination  will  never  delude 
him  that  far." 

"  He  has  what  Joaquin  Miller  would  call 
a  warm  tremendous  mouth,"  said  another. 

She  gave  him  a  swift  smile.     "  But  who 


8  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

is  this  young  man  ?  "  she  asked.  "  And  why 
do  you  call  him  a  genius?  Mrs.  Hopkins 
wrote  asking  me  to  meet  Redfield's  friend, 
Mr.  Mark  Saltonstall ;  but  as  I  only  re- 
turned yesterday  from  a  visit  to  my  brother 
I  know  nothing  more." 

"  He  is  just  out  of  college,  has  just  grad- 
uated," said  the  young  man  who  had  first 
spoken.  "  He  was  in  my  class,  or  perhaps 
I  should  say  I  was  in  his,  as  the  rest  of 
us  cut  a  second  figure.  His  speeches,  es- 
says, poems,  were  extraordinary.  You  felt 
blinded  and  dazzled — worst  of  all,  insignifi- 
cant. Then  he  published  a  poem  that  set 
all  Boston  talking.  Surely  you  have  read 
his  '  Restoration  of  Pindar's  lost  Di  thy  ram- 
bics  to  Bacchus  and  Pseans  to  Apollo  ? ' 

"Yes,"  she  said,  slowly,  "I  have  read  it. 
It  did  not  occur  to  me  at  the  moment  to 
connect  it  with  this  young  man." 

"  It  was  fearfully  crude,  of  course ;  he 
made  all  sorts  of  breaks.  But  such  instinct- 
ive knowledge  of  form;  such  vigor  with- 
out erotism ;  such  scholarship  !  Above  all, 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  9 

such  penetrative  imagination  and  freedom 
from  the  influence  of  other  writers  —  for 
even  Pindar's  Remains,  you  know,  give  but  a 
pallid  suggestion  of  his  greater  works.  The 
faculty  sent  for  him  personally  and  com- 
plimented him,  something  they  never  did 
before  in  the  course  of  their  didactic  lives. 
I  heard  afterward  that  there  was  a  good 
deal  of  dispute  among  them  before  they 
did  it.  Some  said  that  it  was  nothing  but 
a  youthful  fever  of  the  imagination  and 
would  come  to  nothing;  but  the  majority 
swore  that  he  was  a  genius,  and  the  major- 
ity ruled." 

"  Was  he  a  friend  of  yours  ?  "  she  asked. 
Her  curiosity  was  aroused  and  she  looked 
intently  at  the  new-comer. 

"  Oh,  no.  I  barely  knew  him.  None  of  us 
did,  excepting  perhaps  Red  Hopkins,  who 
adored  him,  and  whom  he  tolerated  occasion- 
ally. He  was  not  uppish,  nor  a  prig,  but  he 
seemed  to  prefer  himself  to  any  one  else. 
Perhaps  he  would  have  been  disliked  and 
made  somewhat  uncomfortable,  but  he  was 


10  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

one  of  the  best  athletes  in  the  class.  But 
even  on  the  base-ball  ground,  or  when  train- 
ing for  a  boat  race,  he  had  little  to  say.  He 
had  ten  cats,  a  peacock,  an  owl,  five  white 
rats,  and  a  whole  regiment  of  toads.  They 
seemed  to  give  him  all  the  society  he  want- 
ed— especially  the  cats." 

"  He  looks,"  she  said,  slowly,  "  he  looks 
like  the  Sphinx." 

Saltonstall  was  undergoing  the  ordeal  of 
introduction  to  half  the  people  in  the  room. 
If  he  had  the  shyness  of  youth  he  concealed 
it  under  an  almost  frigid  dignity.  In  spite 
of  his  six  feet,  and  lean  strong  limbs,  he 
would  always  give  the  impression  of  ugli- 
ness at  first  glance.  His  mouth  almost 
covered  the  lower  part  of  his  face,  but  the 
lips,  in  their  grand  firm  curves,  had  the 
repose  of  stone ;  they  belonged  to  the  faces 
that  lie  beneath  the  pyramids.  His  straight 
hair  was  parted  near  the  centre  of  a  head 
large  above  the  ears,  of  great  width  across 
the  top,  but,  unlike  many  intellectual  heads, 
full  at  the  back.  The  lids  of  his  eyes  were  so 


A   QUESTION  OF  TlMtf.  11 

heavy  that  the  lost  secrets  of  Egypt  seemed 
encrypted  beneath.  The  depth  of  those  ex- 
traordinary eyes  was  fathomless,  baffling, 
appalling.  Even  their  color,  dark  though  it 
was,  could  not  be  determined.  It  gave  one 
the  impression  of  night,  when  color  is  not. 

But  the  strangest  feature  in  that  face, 
with  its  strong,  hard,  bold  square  lines,  was 
the  nose.  Although  large  it  was  delicate  as 
a  lancet,  and  so  thin  and  flexible  were  the 
nostrils  that  when  they  were  not  quivering 
like  the  wings  of  a  captured  bird  they  lay 
limply  against  the  septum.  It  was  a  face  of 
remarkable  contradictions,  yet  harmonized 
by  a  great  individuality — the  stern,  inscrut- 
able repose  of  a  granite  Pharaoh  flaming 
with  the  soul  of  the  Present. 

He  managed  to  get  away  from  his  tormen- 
tors at  last,  and  stood  apart  with  his  hostess. 
She  babbled  pleasantly,  and  his  eyes  moved 
slowly  about  the  room.  They  rested  for  a 
moment  upon  a  beautiful  woman  whose  chair 
was  surrounded  by  men. 

"  Pretty,"  he  thought,  "  but  like  a  million 


12  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

other  American  women."  Then  he,  too, 
looked  again. 

He  turned  abruptly  to  his  hostess. 

"Who  is  that?"  he  asked. 

The  monologue  ceased,  and  Mrs.  Hopkins 
looked  up  inquiringly. 

"Who?" 

"  That  young  lady  over  there  ?  " 

Mrs.  Hopkins  smiled.  "  My  dear  Mr. 
Saltonstall,  that  young  lady  is  exactly  forty- 
six — forty-six  on  the  ninth  of  last  February." 
She  was  not  spiteful,  merely  statistical. 

"  What  ?  "  he  stammered  ;  "  what  ?  " 

"  It  surprises  you,  does  it  not  ?  Yes,  she 
is  remarkably  young  -  looking,  even  in  a 
strong  light.  But  she  is  two  years  older 
than  I  am — we  went  to  school  together.  I, 
however,"  with  a  sigh,  "have  had  trouble, 
and  ten  children,  and  many  duties.  She  has 
had  an  eventless  life.  Soon  after  she  left 
school  she  married  a  rich  man,  and  he  took 
her  to  a  beautiful  home.  He  was  twenty 
years  older  than  she,  and  very  kind  and  in- 
dulgent, almost  like  a  father.  She  would 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  13 

have  liked  to  travel,  but  her  husband  was 
absorbed  in  business,  arid  she  has  never  been 
away  from  Danforth  except  for  an  occasional 
visit  to  Boston,  and  once  she  spent  a  winter 
in  New  York,  and  has  got  her  clothes  from 
there  ever  since.  She  is  fond  of  dress  and 
is  very  good-natured,  and  lets  the  girls  copy 
her  gowns.  Four  years  ago  her  husband 
died,  and  she  could  do  as  she  pleases,  but 
she  doesn't  seem  to  care.  She  was  al- 
ways a  little  lazy  and  never  very  ambi- 
tious." 

"  What  is  her  name  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Trevor — Boradil  Trevor.  She  was 
a  Palmer,  one  of  the  oldest  families  in  the 
State.  Ah  !  she  is  going  to  sing.  She  has 
a  lovely  voice,  as  young  as  her  face." 

Mark  watched  her  cross  the  room  to  the 
piano.  Her  movements  had  none  of  the 
quick  litheness  of  girlhood,  but  she  carried 
herself  with  dignity,  and  her  round  slender 
figure  was  perfect. 

She  sang  a  ballad,  in  a  pure  sweet  voice 
with  many  delicate  tones  in  it,  and  showed 


14  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

faithful  study  and  much  intelligent  appre- 
ciation of  music. 

"Yes,"  thought  Mark,  "a  lovely  voice, 
but  ice-bound  like  her  eyes." 

He  watched  her  with  growing  interest. 
The  first  shock  over,  the  anomaly  appealed 
to  his  imagination.  Moreover,  he  had  a  pro- 
found contempt  for  girls ;  when  he  gave 
them  any  thought  at  all  it  was  to  wonder 
why  they  were.  He  usually  concluded  that 
they  were  made  to  be  useful  at  a  later 
period  when  they  should  become  wives 
and  mothers.  In  fact  he  knew  very  little 
about  women  of  any  age.  In  spite  of  his 
tremendous  vitality,  imagination  had  claimed 
passion,  and  the  beauty  of  women  was  faded 
and  cold  beside  the  creations  of  his  brain. 
Of  abstract  love  he  had  sung  and  dreamed, 
deified  it,  worshipped  it.  With  human  pas- 
sion he  had  never  even  experimented. 

When  the  song  and  its  encore  were  over 
he  turned  to  Mrs.  Hopkins. 

"  I  should  like  to  know  Mrs.  Trevor,"  he 
said. 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  15 

"Certainly,"  said  his  amiable  hostess. 
"  Certainly  ;  I  will  introduce  you." 

She  was  detained  for  a  moment,  and  Mark 
looked  at  her  meditatively.  She  was  ma- 
tronly and  stout.  All  the  lines  of  her  fig- 
ure were  stiff,  in  spite  of  the  flesh.  Her 
face  was  careworn  and  lined,  she  parted  her 
black  and  white  hair  and  twisted  it  in  a 
tight  knot  at  the  back  of  her  head.  But  her 
expression  was  sweet  and  her  manner  indi- 
cated a  nature  full  of  patient  kindness.  He 
moved  his  eyes  to  Mrs.  Trevor.  Forty-six 
years  of  nothingness  !  Great  God  !  what  a 
tragedy.  Then  he  looked  again  at  his  host- 
ess. He  hardly  knew  which  to  pity  most. 
But  there  were  problems  of  life  he  did  not 
pretend  to  have  grasped.  Then  he  suddenly 
felt  his  youth  as  he  had  never  felt  it  before. 
What  if  he  had  been  endowed  with  genius  ? 
What  if  ideas  and  language  rushed  at  his 
command  ?  He  was  but  a  boy,  inexperi- 
enced, ignorant — for  of  women  and  their 
eternal  mystery  he  knew  nothing. 

He  was  presented  to  Mrs.  Trevor  and  sat 


16  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

by  her  in  silence  for  a  moment.  It  occurred 
to  him  that  he  had  never  before  given  the 
beauty  of  a  woman's  arm  the  credit  it  de- 
served. Boradil's  arm  had  been  moulded 
that  a  sculptor  might  be  the  wiser.  At  first 
Mark  looked  at  it  with  the  rapt  appreci- 
ation of  the  artist,  as  it  lay  along  her  black 
gown  ;  but  in  a  moment  he  felt  a  paramount 
desire  to  clasp  it  with  his  hand.  He  had  no 
wish  to  kiss  it,  merely  to  feel  its  cool  human 
roundness  against  the  warmth  of  his  palm. 
He  felt  as  old  as  a  few  moments  before  he 
had  felt  young.  He  had  squandered  twenty- 
two  years  of  life. 

Mrs.  Hopkins  had  ordered  the  other  men 
to  go  and  talk  to  a  group  of  girls,  and  he 
and  Mrs.  Trevor  were  alone. 

UI  cannot  talk,"  he  said,  abruptly,  "I 
have  no  talent  for  small  talk  whatever." 

She  smiled  sympathetically  into  his  eyes. 
Were  they  brooding  over  the  secrets  of  the 
ages,  or  had  she  the  honor  of  being  reflected 
therein  ?  She  changed  her  mind  suddenly 
regarding  what  she  had  intended  to  say. 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  17 

"  I  hope  you  do  not  think  it  necessary  to 
pose  and  be  eccentric  because  you  are  a 
poet,"  she  remarked,  coldly. 

His  dark  face  grew  almost  black.  "  I  hope 
— I  hope  you  will  not  think  me  such  a  fool," 
he  burst  out,  deprecatingly.  "Indeed  you 
misjudge  me.  What  I  said  is  literally  true. 
I  have  not  the  slightest  idea  how  to  make 
conversation.  My  mother  died  when  I  was 
born.  I  never  had  any  sisters.  My  father 
brought  me  up,  and  until  I  went  to  college  I 
had  a  tutor.  My  father  never  went  into  so- 
ciety, but  he  always  had  a  lot  of  men  at  the 
house — awfully  clever  men;  some  of  them 
lawyers,  like  himself ;  some  writers ;  some 
artists — and  I  used  to  listen  to  them  talk. 
They  were  very  good  to  me,  even  when  I 
was  a  little  chap ;  and  I  could  talk  to  them. 
But  they  talked  of  things  that  interested  me 
and  that  I  had  read  and  thought  about. 
That  is  a  very  different  thing  from  talking 
to  a  woman  the  first  time  you  meet  her.  Al- 
most all  the  women  I  have  known  have  lived 
in  books." 


18  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

He  delivered  his  speech  with  a  boyish 
eagerness,  unlike  the  frozen  solemnity  with 
which  he  had  favored  the  other  people  in 
the  room ;  and  it  was  in  strange  contrast  to 
the  massive  repose  of  his  face.  Boradil 
looked  at  him  with  genuine  sympathy,  and 
said  what  had  been  in  her  mind  a  few  mo- 
ments before : 

"  And  I  will  confide  to  you  that  I  cannot 
talk — cannot  '  make  conversation ' — either. 
I  never  do.  I  only  listen.  I  turn  perfectly 
cold  when  a  stranger  is  introduced  to  me  and 
expects  me  to  say  something.  It  is  constitu- 
tional. I  shall  never  get  over  it  if  I  live  to 
be  a  hundred." 

"  I  am  so  glad,"  he  said  with  a  smile 
which  just  touched  his  mouth  and  vanished. 
"  If  I  come  to  a  dead  stop  I  shall  know  that 
you  understand.  Do  you  like  society  ?  " 

"  I  neither  like  it  nor  dislike  it — here.  I 
spent  a  winter  in  New  York  once,  and  was 
very,  very  bored.  Such  a  rush,  and  all  for 
nothing  in  the  end.  I  like  to  meet  my 
friends  and  talk  to  them.  Or  perhaps  it  has 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  19 

become  sucli  a  habit  that  I  think  I  like  it- 
just  as  we  like  our  old  furniture  and  think 
we  like  our  relatives." 

He  looked  at  her  with  some  curiousness. 
If  she  had  not  cared  for  society,  with  what 
had  she  filled  the  long  years  of  her  life  ? 
He  wanted  to  ask  her,  but  dared  not.  But 
he  had  not  believed  that  a  mere  mortal  could 
so  rouse  his  interest.  He  felt  it  necessary  to 
say  something. 

"  You  look  extraordinarily  young  for 
forty-six,"  he  remarked,  felicitously. 

She  blushed,  but  not  with  displeasure ;  it 
had  never  occurred  to  her  to  deny  her  age. 
Then  she  laughed  at  his  directness. 

"  One  lives  such  a  quiet  life  in  a  town  like 
Danforth.  What  brought  you  here  ?  " 

"  I  have  an  aunt — Mrs.  Brewster — who 
asked  me  to  spend  the  summer  with  her. 
Do  you  know  her  ? " 

"  Yes,  indeed.  I  have  known  her  for  thirty 
years  at  least.  When  is  Elnora  Brewster 
coming  home  ?  She  is  said  to  have  made 
quite  a  sensation  abroad ;  has  been  presented 


20  A  QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

at  a  lot  of  German  and  Scandinavian  courts, 
and  been  travelling  about  with  some  very 
fine  people.  Danforth,"  she  smiled  a  little 
satirically,  "  is  very  proud  of  her." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Mark,  indifferently,  "  so  is 
my  aunt.  She  thinks  a  lot  of  those  things." 
His  slow  gaze  roved  about  the  room,  then 
rested  fall  on  her  once  more.  a  I  did  not 
want  to  come  to-night,"  he  went  on,  with 
his  startling  frankness,  "  but  I  am  glad  now 
that  I  did.  I  like  you — amazingly,  and  I 
do  not  care  for  these  other  people  at  all. 
Do  you  think  I  can  see  you  again  ?  " 

Boradil  had  exactly  that  amount  and 
quality  of  coquetry  which  makes  a  woman 
charming  instead  of  cruel.  There  were 
times,  however,  when  the  exercise  of  this 
dainty  feminine  gift  had  proved  quite  as 
dangerous  as  the  fiercer  charms  of  the  equa- 
torial sisterhood. 

"  I  will  adopt  you,"  she  said,  softly ;  and 
her  voice  was  like  the  minor  chord  of  a  vio- 
lin. "  You  are  quite  young  enough  to  be 
my  son,  and  I  shall  like  to  spoil  you." 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  21 

"  It  seems  ridiculous,"  he  answered  her ; 
"  you  do  look  so  awfully  young.  Yes ; 
adopt  me.  I  will  be  your  son,  and  as  filial 
as  I  know  how.  Only  let  me  go  to  see  you 
every  day.  When  you  get  tired  of  me  I 
will  go  back  to  Boston.  Here  is  a  man 
coining  to  talk  to  you.  Please  send  him 
away." 

A  tall,  dignified  man,  of  middle  age,  with 
kindness  in  his  brown  eyes,  sternness  on  a 
mouth  that  trial  had  straightened,  and  intel- 
ligence on  his  broad  lined  forehead,  came  up 
to  Mrs.  Trevor  and  took  a  chair  beside  her. 
She  blushed  as  he  approached,  and  intro- 
duced him  as  "  Mr.  Irving."  Mark  stood 
up  at  once,  but  bent  to  her  ear. 

"  I  am  not  looking  for  a  father,"  he  mut- 
tered, and  then  left  the  room  and  the  house. 

A  few  hours  later  Boradil  Trevor  dis- 
missed her  handmaiden,  after  her  hair  had 
received  its  customary  brushing,  and  stood 
long  before  the  mirror.  She  raised  the 
lamp  above  her  head  and  scrutinized  herself 
unflinchingly. 


22  A  QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

"  There  are  a  few  lines  about  ray  eyes," 
she  said  aloud,  "  but  no  wrinkles — not  one. 
There  is  a  little  hollow,  no,  a  faint  depres- 
sion, in  my  cheek,  but  the  flesh  is  firm.  I 
have  not  that  loose  look  that  many  women 
get  at  forty.  My  eyes  do  not  look  tired, 
and  my  teeth  are  perfect,  but  my  skin  is  no 
longer  very  white,  although,  thank  heaven,  it 
is  not  faded.  My  throat  has  just  a  tiny  hol- 
low, but  is  neither  stringy  nor  soft,  and  I 
have  not  a  round  back." 

She  looked  at  her  hands.  They  were 
shapely  and  smooth ;  age  had  not  touched 
them.  Her  rich  abundant  hair  hung  to  her 
waist,  her  bust  curved  like  pliant  jade,  the 
skin  on  her  neck  was  fresh  and  smooth. 
Still  she  sighed.  Her  eyes  looked  far  be- 
yond the  mirror.  The  future  leaned  for- 
ward and  cast  its  shadow  over  her.  She 
sighed  again. 

"  I  do  not  know  why,"  she  thought,  "  but 
I  feel  old  to-night." 


II. 


DANFORTH-OJST-TIIE-SOUND  had  begun  its  un- 
eventful existence  as  a  fishing  village,  some 
two  hundred  years  before ;  but  of  late  years 
a  town  of  pretensions  had  grown  along  the 
shore.  In  the  natural  course  of  things  Soci- 

o 

ety  had  crystallized  on  the  surface  of  Prog- 
ress, and  the  town  even  boasted  the  doubt- 
ful luxury  of  a  summer  hotel.  But  nei- 
ther local  society  nor  summer  boarders  be- 
guiled the  old  families  of  Danforth  from 
the  proud  tenor  of  their  way.  Through  the 
town  and  beyond  it,  on  the  hills  and  by  the 
salt-marshes,  were  a  dozen  or  more  square 
brick  houses,  each  crowned  with  a  single 
tower ;  in  them  lived  the  descendants  of 
the  men  who  had  routed  the  red-skins  and 
farmed  their  acres  weaponed  from  breast 
to  boot.  These  simple  yet  haughty  people 


24  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

visited  and  entertained  one  another  gener- 
ation after  generation,  and  no  comeling  to 
the  town  had  ever  entered  their  doors. 
They  clung  to  traditions,  and  were  as  conser- 
vative as  people  ever  are  whose  experience 
has  been  narrow. 

Trevor  House  was  perched  like  an  eagle 
on  a  rocky  hill  behind  the  town,  and  com- 
manded a  broad  sweep  of  water,  and  miles  of 
meadow,  marsh,  and  wood.  When  Boradil 
came  to  it  a  bride  she  spent  many  an  hour 
in  the  round  tower  watching  the  ships  and 
boats  go  by.  She  was  somewhat  inclined 
to  sentiment  and  romance  in  those  days, 
and,  like  a  girl,  she  had  dreamed  of  vague 
futures,  forgetting  that  she  was  already  a 
wife.  Years  ago  she  had  stopped  dreaming, 
for  the  daily  round  of  her  pleasant,  un- 
eventful life  had  dulled  the  edge  of  imagi- 
nation. The  years  slipped  by  so  quickly  ! 
She  had  barely  noticed  them  speed  softly 
past  her,  so  peacefully  monotonous  were 
their  days.  Her  household  duties  occu- 
pied her  morning  hours,  and  her  after- 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  25 

noons  were  varied  with  music,  painting,  and 
books.  Every  night,  excepting  when  some 
gathering  demanded  her,  she  went  to  bed  at 
nine  o'clock,  and  slept  ten  hours.  The  latent 
sadness  in  her  eyes  was  not  the  child  of  her 
intelligence,  but  of  the  unconscious  tragedy 
of  her  life.  £>  /  (r  ^ 

When  Mark  called,  the  day  after  Mrs. 
Hopkins's  little  party,  he  was  shown  into 
Mrs.  Trevor's  library,  which  adjoined  the 
great  room  holding  the  tomes  of  Mr.  Trevor 
and  his  forefathers.  It  was  a  bright  room 
facing  a  wood,  but  the  oaken  wralls  and  floor 
were  black  with  age.  The  floor,  however, 
was  half  covered  with  Oriental  rugs,  and 
the  bindings  of  the  books  were  fresh  and 
gay.  A  piano,  covered  with  music,  stood  in 
one  corner,  and  an  easel  in  another.  On  the 
edge  of  the  wood,  facing  the  window,  was  a 
magnificent  clump  of  rose-bay  laurel,  the 
tall  heads  crowned  by  great  bunches  of  pink 
blossoms,  soft  as  dawn  clouds. 

Mark  looked  with  some  surprise  at  the 
well-filled  shelves  that  ran  about  two  sides 


26  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

of  the  room,  then  eagerly  scanned  the  titles 
of  the  books. 

"  She  has  done  some  reading  in  her  forty- 
six  years,  at  all  events,"  he  thought.  "  Per- 
haps one  may  be  able  to  tell  something  of  a 
woman  by  the  silent  company  she  keeps." 

All  the  American  and  English  novelists  of 
any  note,  past  and  present,  were  there ;  a 
good  deal  of  poetry,  and  the  essays  and  let- 
ters to  which  Posterity — that  infallible  fil- 
ter, whose  ways  are  past  finding  out — had 
affixed  its  seal.  France  was  represented  by 
Balzac,  George  Sand,  Victor  Hugo  and  Gau- 
tier's  Travels. 

Mrs.  Trevor  did  not  appear  for  twenty 
minutes,  and  Mark  had  time  to  meditate.  The 
woman  who  had  so  roused  his  curiosity  had 
the  face  of  a  girl,  and  the  face  is  supposed  to 
be  the  plastic  medium  of  the  soul.  But  a 
woman  could  not  have  read  all  these  books 
and  know  nothing  of  life.  Balzac  alone 
would  remove  any  doubts  she  may  have 
entertained  regarding  the  resemblance  of 
Danforth  to  the  World.  Were  living  knowl- 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  27 

edge  and  written  knowledge  so  widely  dif- 
ferent that  tlie  latter  glided  from  the  surface 
of  a  soul  in  which  experience  had  cut  no  fur- 
rows ?  His  insight  guided  him  to  the  truth, 
where  a  mere  man  of  the  world  would  have 
arrived  at  a  different  and  more  cynical  con- 
clusion. Boradil  read  of  the  heights  and 
depths  of  human  passion,  of  the  world  in 
its  glittering  and  sinful  phases,  but  the  arti- 
ficially gathered  lore  dwelt  in  one  wing  of 
her  brain,  and  her  ego  in  another.  Some- 
times the  passions  of  those  brain-children 
touched  her  to  responsive  thrill,  but  its  ef- 
fect went  with  the  moment.  She  had  not  a 
brooding  mind,  and  each  book  displaced  its 
predecessor. 

Mark  turned  to  the  easel.  A  nearly  fin- 
ished water- color  was  on  it ;  an  exquisite  bit 
of  landscape,  with  a  certain  depth  of  color 
and  touch.  He  had  a  curious  feeling  that  if 
he  had  time  to  study  one  of  her  pictures  he 
would  come  to  know  the  woman— know  her 
better  than  she  knew  herself.  A  door  be- 
hind him  opened,  and  he  turned  to  greet  Mrs. 


28  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

Trevor.     As  she   came  toward    him  he   no- 
ticed that  her  color  deepened. 

"  You  blushed  like  that  for  Mr.  Irving 
last  night,"  he  said,  unceremoniously ;  "  do 
you  always  blush  ?  " 

She  laughed  amusedly ;  "  Almost  always. 
It  means  nothing  with  me." 

"  Are  you  going  to  marry  Mr.  Irving  ?  " 

She  laughed  outright  this  time,  and  the 
blush  grew  warmer.  "  No.  Such  an  idea 
never  occurred  to  me.  How  abrupt  you 
are.  Let  us  sit  here  by  the  window.  It 
is  so  warm,  and  the  woods  make  one  feel 
cool." 

He  sat  with  her  before  the  broad  window 
and  the  light  shone  full  on  her  face.  The 
few  retrogressions  were  carelessly,  almost 
defiantly  revealed  ;  but  she  stood  the  test 
better  than  many  girls  after  their  second, 
season.  And  the  light  made  her  look  like  a 
splendid  bit  of  color  advantageously  hung. 
She  wore  a  white  gown,  with  a  band  of  heli- 
otrope velvet  clasping  her  throat,  and  an- 
other her  small  round  waist. 


A  QUESTION  OF  TIME.  29 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  feel  the  greatest 
desire  to  do  with  your  mouth  ?  "  demanded 
Mark,  abruptly. 

For  the  first  time  Boradil  was  somewhat 
taken  aback,  but  he  went  on  reflectively. 

"  I  want  to  take  the  under  lip  between  my 
thumb  and  finger  and  pull  it  open.  I  feel 
sure  that  more  than  half  of  it  is  on  the  in- 
side. It  looks  like  one  of  those  laurel  blos- 
soms, half  burst." 

The  laurel  blossom  looked  full  blown  for 
the  moment.  "  You  certainly  say  the  most 
unconventional  things.  I  had  thought  of 
correcting  you  as  a  mother  should,  but  I 
believe  I  will  not.  I  never  knew  anyone 
like  you  before,  and  your  originality  inter- 
ests me.  Why  should  I  try  to  make  you 
like  other  people  ?  " 

"  Have  all  the  people  you  have  known 
been  alike  ?  " 

"Mostly." 

"  God  !  Forty-six  years  of  the  same  people. 
I  am  only  twenty-two,  and  I  have  known 
many — well,  a  good  many,  varieties  of  men." 


30  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

"  Well,  perhaps  if  I  were  to  think  about  it 
I  might  find  that  each  most  insignificant  per- 
son I  have  met  had  his  individuality.  And 
perhaps  the  men  you  have  known,  have  not 
been  so  unlike  after  all.  I  do  not  imagine 
there  is  so  very  much  difference  between  peo- 
ple ;  the  difference  lies  in  their  opportunities. 
That  is  the  reason  why  the  people  in  novels 
are  so  much  more  interesting  than  those  in 
real  life.  I  do  not  find  Mr.  Irving  particu- 
larly interesting,  but  I  have  often  thought 
that  a  novelist  could  make  him  so." 

"Yes,  arbitrarily.  That  is  Taiue's  defini- 
tion of  Art — to  manufacture  for  a  character 
the  opportunities  of  development  he  may 
lack  in  real  life." 

"  I  have  never  read  Taine.  I  often  have 
ideas  that  I  come  across  later  in  literature. 
I  suppose  it  is  often  so.  The  writers  say 
it,  and  we  do  not.  They  become  famous, 
and  we  remain  obscure." 

"  Yes ;  it  is  a  mere  matter  of  ambition." 

"  With  the  merely  clever  writer,  but  sure- 
ly not  with  genius." 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  31 

"  No,  I  believe  that  genius  will  create  be- 
cause it  must — even  if  it  knew  that  the  world 
would  never  stop  to  listen.  At  the  same 
time  the  resemblance  in  this  regard  between 
genius  and  the  writing  epidemic  of  the  pres- 
ent day  is  somewhat  amusing.  According  to 
the  '  interviewers '  of  the  press  every  scrib- 
bling woman  in  the  land,  with  a  thousand 
words  for  each  idea.  '  writes  because  she 
must,'  i  because  she  can't  help  herself.'  The 
average  brain  appears  to  be  in  the  condition 
of  a  dynamited  pumpkin.  But  let  us  talk  of 
something  else.  I  want  to  know  how  you 
have  used  up  your  life.  You  said  last  night 
that  you  had  spent  a  winter  in  New  York 
once,  and  did  not  like  it.  Why  did  you 
not  like  it?" 

"  I  never  cared  for  dancing,  and  the  men 
talked  society  nonsense.  When  I  did  not  feel 
dizzy  T  felt  tired.  There  seemed  nothing  to  it." 

"  No ;  I  suppose  there  is  not.  Once  or 
twice  I  was  forcibly  taken  out  in  Boston, 
and  I  thought  I  should  go  mad.  The  girls 
looked  like  pink  and  white  and  blue  toy 


32  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

balloons  that  were  just  beginning  to  col- 
lapse, and  the  men  looked  like  paper  dolls." 

"  Exactly.  After  two  months  of  it  I  came 
home." 

"  But  are  you  never  lonely  ?  " 

"  Not  very." 

"  But  sometimes  ?  Tell  me.  You  do  not 
know  how  much  I  want  to  know  everything 
about  you." 

"  Well,  sometimes  a  little.  One  cannot 
paint  and  walk  and  read  and  sing  and  house- 
keep  all  the  time,  and  I  know  every  soul  in 
this  place  by  heart." 

"Why  do  you  not  travel,  now  that  you 
can  do  as  you  please  ? " 

"Well — there  are  several  reasons.  Busi- 
ness matters  detained  me  for  a  time.  Then  I 
do  not  like  the  idea  of  travelling  alone — I  am 
afraid.  I  may  as  well  own  to  the  truth. 
And  I  know  of  no  one  whom  I  should  like 
to  travel  with.  Then — then  I  am  so  used  to 
staying  here.  I  have  been  so  hap —  well,  so 
contented  and  comfortable  in  this  old  house. 
I  almost  shrink  from  change.  You  see — I 


A   QUESTION   OF  TIME.  33 

am  forty-six,  and  habit  by  that  time  has  be- 
come a  strong  force " 

"You  are  twenty,  thirty  years  younger," 
interrupted  Mark. 

She  shook  her  head.  "  I  look  young,  and 
in  many  ways  I  feel  young,  but — the  fact  re- 
mains. The  forty-six  years  have  gone  l>y ; 
and,  consciously  or  unconsciously  to  myself, 
have  left  their  mark.  I  have  lived  forty-six 
years  in  this  world,  and  to-day  I  am  the  re- 
sult of  those  forty -six  years.  I  am  not  blase 
even  of  monotony,  but  I  feel  rather  than 
know  that  I  am  indifferent  to  many  things 
which  would  have  given  me  keen  satisfaction 
twenty  years  ago." 

"  You  talk  as  if  you  were  three  hundred," 
he  said,  angrily,  although  her  age,  as  apart 
from  herself,  did  seem  great  to  his  youthful 
bout  with  Time.  He  went  on  with  uncon- 
scious and  increasing  eagerness.  "  What  are 
forty-six  years  in  themselves?  What  are 
they  in  comparison  with  Time  ?  What  a 
trivial  figure  does  such  a  number  of  years  cut 
in  the  history  of  the  world !  Why  do  they 


34  A  QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

seem  great  to  man  and  woman  ?  Because 
man's  allotted  days  are  threescore  years  and 
ten,  and  toward  the  middle  of  the  third  de- 
cade the  teeth  begin  to  drop,  the  eyes  to  dim, 
the  vigor  to  fail.  That  is  the  whole  secret 
of  what  is  known  as  old  age.  But — I  had  a 
friend  in  Boston,  a  newspaper  man,  who  was 
mad  on  the  subject  of  physical  culture,  and 
before  I  got  rid  of  him  I  knew  as  much 
about  it  as  he  did.  Although  the  subject 
bored  me  a  good  deal,  I  became  convinced 
that  with  proper  training,  diet,  and  observa- 
tion of  every  law  of  health,  youth  could  be 
prolonged  indefinitely  ;  the  god  of  old  age 
would  wither  and  die  of  disuse.  Why,"  he 
added,  laughing,  "  I  have  not  the  faintest 
doubt  that  a  couple  of  centuries  hence  a 
woman  will  not  be  thought  old  enough  to 
make  her  bow  into  society  until  she  is  fifty, 
and  will  lead  the  german  at  two  hundred." 

She  too  laughed,  but  a  flash  of  passionate 
hope  crossed  her  face.  "  Perhaps,"  she  said  ; 
"  but  do  you  think  the  man  will  ever  be  born 
who  will  want  to  live  two  hundred  years  ?  " 


A  QUESTION  OF  TIME.  35 

"  Certainly.  Two  centuries  from  now  the 
world  will  be  so  rich  with  interest  that  it 
will  take  three  hundred  years  to  know  and 
enjoy  it  all.  Think  of  the  monuments  of 
their  past  added  to  ours.  And  their  moral 
code  will  have  changed.  Men  and  women 
will  live  together,  by  law,  a  certain  number 
of  years — thirty,  forty,  sixty  (or  perhaps 
only  ten) — and  as  the  race  will  be  two  hun- 
dred years  nearer  perfection  of  beauty,  in- 
tellect, and  character,  think  of  the  tremen- 
dous happiness  and  variety  a  man  will  get 
out  of  his  generous  allotment  of  years. 
Think  of  the  many  deep  and  rich  experi- 
ences. Why,  he  could  be  poet,  artist,  au- 
thor, lover,  scientist,  discoverer,  each  in  suc- 
cession ;  for  the  mind  will  unfold  many 
leaves  in  that  long  span,  and  a  man  could 
no  more  remain  one  unalterable  personality 
than  he  to-day  retains  for  more  than  seven 
years  the  same  physical  structure." 

"  Is  that  your  idea  of  Utopia  ?  "  she  asked ; 
"  you  look  like  a  prophet." 

"  Oh,  I  am  a  prophet  of  nothing,"  Jie  said, 


36  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

gloom  settling  in  his  eyes.  "  Sometimes  I 
think  that  my  ideas  are  the  veriest  rot  that 
was  ever  born  in  a  man's  brain.  In  the  reac- 
tion which  follows  the  exaltation  of  conceiv- 
ing a  poem  I  feel  like  an  enthusiastic  gush- 
ing fool,  as  if  my  brain  were  but  full  of  the 
rubbish  of  youth.  It  is  only  when  I  am 
on  the  heights  that  I  feel  great.  Between 
whiles  I  often  am  so  depressed  and  discour- 
aged that  I  want  to  kill  myself." 

She  put  out  her  hand  and  touched  his 
kindly.  "  Remember  only  the  moments  of 
exaltation,"  she  said,  in  her  sweet  vibrating 
voice,  "  when  you  are  great.  Remember 
that  poor  common  mortals  never  have  such 
moments  at  all.  When  you  feel  that  you 
have  that  power  over  all  men — that  you  can 
make  men's  brains  suddenly  empty  of  all  but 
the  song  and  the  thoughts  you  are  pouring 
there,  then  you  have  the  right  to  embalm 
such  a  moment  and  keep  it  before  your  sight 
forever." 

She  was  leaning  forward,  her  eyes  soft 
>vith  the  earnestness  of  her  sympathy,  and 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  37 

he  felt  the  subtle  spell  of  her  momentary 
identification  with  himself.  He  was  a  creat- 
ure of  imagination,  and  a  kind  of  rapture,  a 
completeness  of  being,  stole  over  him.  The 
material  world  faded.  He  vaguely  remem- 
bered a  tradition  he  had  heard  once  of  a  race 
which,  existing  before  flesh  had  raised  its 
barriers,  had  possessed  equal  power  of  uni- 
ty and  duality :  love  had  meant  one  shad- 
owy blissful  outline  ;  duality,  a  floating,  hand 
in  hand.  .  .  .  He  felt  as  if  he  had  ab- 
sorbed this  woman.  .  .  .  Was  her  face 
before  the  eyes  of  his  body,  or  down  in 
his  soul  ?  .  .  . 

She  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  and  he  shiv- 
ered a  little  as  she  withdrew  her  hand. 

"I  often  paint  here,"  she  stammered 
vaguely,  but  he  stood  up. 

"  Good-by,"  he  said  ;  "  I  do  not  want  to 
stay  any  longer.  Will  you  do  something 
for  me  ? " 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Will  you  meet  me  in  the  wood  up  there 
at  four  o'clock  to-morrow  morning  ?  " 


38  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

"  At  four  o' " 

'  Yes.  Does  it  seem  so  very  early  ? 
Have  you  never  been  up  at  four  ?  Then  in- 
deed you  have  wasted  your  life.  Why  it  is 
the  sublimest  hour  of  day  or  night.  Come. 
I  will  teach  you  something  to-morrow  morn- 
ing that  you  have  never  known  yet." 

"Well,"  she  said,  "I  will  be  there." 


III. 


BOBADIL  having  set  an  alarm-clock  to 
awaken  her  at  three,  went  to  bed  that  night 
at  eight.  She  felt  rather  sleepy  and  con- 
fused as  the  clatter  lifted  her  bolt  upright ; 
but  a  cold  bath  and  a  cup  of  coffee,  brewed 
over  a  spirit-lamp,  made  her  feel  fresh,  and 
interested  in  her  adventure  ;  she  was  learn- 
ing the  poignant  sweetness  of  novelty.  As 
the  small  hours  were  cool,  even  in  that  mid- 
summer season,  she  put  on  a  dark  woollen 
gown,  and  crossed  a  white  mull  handker- 
chief across  her  breast.  On  her  head  she 
tied  a  large  poke  bonnet  of  white  straw,  and 
smiled  at  her  reflection  in  the  glass.  She 
looked  a  veritable  Priscilla,  and  as  demure  a 
coquette  as  ever  breathed.  Then  she  gave  a 
little  sigh  and  started  for  her  tryst. 

She  wandered  far   into  the  wood   before 


40  A  QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

Mark  Saltonstall  appeared ;  and  then  lie 
came  with  a  rush,  like  a  wild  animal  flying 
through  the  forest.  She  watched  him  as  he 
ran  toward  her,  his  nostrils  quivering,  his 
lids  lifting.  He  looked  youth  and  life  epit- 
omized. He  reached  her  side  with  a  leap, 
and  catching  her  about  the  waist  before  she 
could  divine  his  purpose,  whirled  her  up  and 
down  the  clearing.  She  made  one  desperate 
effort  to  free  herself,  then  let  him  have  his 
way.  Round  and  round  he  swung  her,  in  a 
dance  as  free  and  wild  as  if  they  had  been 
faun  and  dryad  flashed  upward  from  forest 
tombs ;  then,  suddenly,  he  swept  her  off 
the  ground  and  seated  her  on  the  limb  of  a 
tree. 

"  Oh  !  is  it  not  good  to  be  alive  ? "  he 
cried  to  her.  ."Is  it  not  good — good?  Do 
not  you  feel  mad  sometimes  with  the  very 
joy  of  life  ?  I  should  like  to  jump  as  high 
as  that  tree  and  shout  like  an  Indian.  I  feel 
light  as  air.  I  could  run  ten  miles.  I  feel 
as  if  I  could  divide  myself  into  twenty  dif- 
ferent parts  and  give  nineteen  away  to  nine- 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  41 

teen  puny  men  and  yet  be  stronger  than  any 
man  alive " 

uWill  you  please  take  me  down?"  inter- 
rupted Boradil.  "  I  feel  extremely  undigni- 
fied, and  not  having  the  strength  of  twenty 
men,  somewhat  breathless." 

He  swung  her  down  and  placed  her  care- 
fully on  a  large  moss-covered  stone,  then 
threw  himself  at  her  feet  and  said  no  more 
for  several  minutes. 

A  great  clock,  far  down  in  the  valley 
struck  four,  smiting  the  stillness  like  iron  on 
iron.  Mark  raised  himself  to  his  knees  and 
took  her  hand. 

"  Are  you  rested  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Have  you  forgotten  that  wild  dance  ?  " 

"  No — how  could " 

u  I  mean  is  the  impression  indistinct  enough 
to  give  way  to  another  3  " 

"Possibly." 

"  Then  I  will  tell  you  what  I  meant  by 
saying  that  this  hour  is  the  most  sublime 
of  the  twenty-four.  Listen." 


42  A  QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

"  I  hear  nothing." 

"  That  is  it — only  you  do  hear — you  hear 
the  silence." 

His  voice  ceased  again,  and  this  time  she 
knew  what  he  meant.  In  all  the  forty -six 
years  of  her  life  she  had  never  known  a 
silence  like  that.  It  was  deep  as  space  and 
vast  as  time.  It  became  personified — it 
spoke.  Its  voice  was  like  the  speechless 
thunder  of  arrested  waves  crashing  upon 
phantom  rock.  She  turned  to  him  with 
white  face. 

"  Yes,"  she  whispered,  "  I  feel  it." 

"  This  is  the  moment,"  he  said,  in  the  same 
awestruck  tone,  "  when  Nature  holds  her 
breath  and  writes  the  doom  of  man  and  na- 
tions, earth  and  sea.  It  is  the  hour  of  fate. 
Look  up." 

She  caught  his  mood  and  looked  upward 
with  a  faint  shudder.  The  sky  was  a  dome 
of  steel  blue  granite — hard,  cold,  inflexible. 
Pale  lamps  wavered  here  and  there,  as  if  the 
oil  of  life  were  low,  as  if  they  were  trimmed 
for  humanity's  wake. 


A  QUESTION  OF  TIME.  43 

She  turned  to  him  suddenly  and  they  clung 
together.  Then  his  mood  changed  again  and 
he  sprang  to  his  feet,  lifting  her  with  him. 

"  Come,"  he  said. 

He  hurried  her  to  the  edge  of  the  wood. 
Below  them  lay  salt  marshes  and  corn-fields 
covered  with  creeping  mist.  A  narrow  val- 
ley looked  like  a  yawning  chasm  before 
whose  blackness  even  the  sun  would  pause 
affrighted.  Far  down  slept  the  city,  the 
trees  clinging  about  the  houses  like  hair 
about  a  drowned  face.  Afar,  a  little  town 
clutched  a  steep  hillside  like  wild  mountain 
birds  their  gray,  bare  peaks.  The  streets 
were  perpendicular,  as  if  steps  hewn  from 
rock.  The  surface  was  broken  here  and 
there  by  cave-like  hollows  wherein  man  had 
crept  and  built  his  home :  on  high  a  spire 
shot  upward,  as  if  to  pierce  the  stars  and 
the  golden  ether  of  heaven's  floor.  The  river 
swept  by  marsh  and  town,  the  Sound  lay 
cold  and  still  between  its  peaceful  banks. 
The  same  intense  stillness  was  over  all  as 
in  the  heart  of  the  wood.  Not  a  wreath  of 


44:  A  QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

smoke  curled  upward,  not  a  note  from  the 
throat  of  a  bird  disturbed  a  wave  of  air. 
Then  suddenly  Mark  shouted. 

"Asleep!  asleep!  The  world  is  asleep, 
and  we  alone  are  awake.  Does  it  not  make 
you  feel  omnipotent  ?  Do  not  you  feel  as  if 
the  world  lay  in  your  hand !  That  is  the 
way  I  feel  in  this  hour.  As  if  nothing 
were  impossible.  As  if  the  rest  of  human- 
ity were  dwarfed  and  I  were  almighty.  Oh ! 
what  a  sense  of  power;  I  awake,  sentient, 
bursting  with  life  and  intelligence — they 
stupid,  senseless,  sleeping.  I  feel  like  Caesar, 
like  Jove,  like  God  !  " 

He  caught  her  hands.  "  I  remember 
writing  a  poem  once  in  which  I  embodied 
the  idea  that  if  ever  I  loved  a  woman — 
a  flesh-and-blood  woman  —  I  would  take 
her  for  my  own  at  this  hour — out  in  the 
forest — when  Nature  had  forgotten  us,  and 
the  great  hateful  commonplace  world  was 
asleep.  But  come — come — I  suppose  you 
think  I  am  a  fool  or  a  lunatic.  I  assure  you 
that  these  moods  do  not  occur  often.  I  am 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  45 

generally  fairly  sensible.  Only  it  seems  to 
me  that  certain  hours  of  solitude  must  carry 
any  man  off  his  feet  who  has  one  seed  of  the 
artist  in  him.  Let  us  take  a  walk !  " 

"You  need  not  apologize,"  she  said,  "I 
understand  you." 


IV. 


HE  came  home  to  breakfast  with  her,  and 
after  he  had  gone  she  sat  long  in  her  library 
thinking  of  the  past  few  hours.  For  the  first 
time  in  her  life  she  found  herself  vitally  in- 
terested in  a  fellow-being.  It  was  a  new 
sensation,  this  being  lifted  out  of  herself  into 
the  actual  life  and  thoughts  of  another — far 
different  from  the  momentary  interest  born 
of  a  sympathetic  nature.  She  felt  as  if  her 
whole  mental  vision  had  been  refocused,  and 
that  the  object  filling  the  camera  was  no 
longer  herself,  but  a  man  electric  with  genius, 
ardent  with  hope,  imperious  with  ambition — 
vital,  magnificent,  terrifying.  She  had  never 
been  a  selfish  woman  as  people  go ;  many 
a  man  and  woman  turned  to  her  naturally 
in  hours  of  trouble;  many  a  poor  family 
found  life  easier  because  she  had  entered 
their  little  radius ;  but,  lonely  in  the  world, 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  47 

she  had  come  to  feel  that  she  was  the  pivot 
on  which  that  world  revolved.  It  was  a 
delightful  sensation — that  unique  absorbing 
interest  in  the  personating  of  another.  It 
gave  a  piquant  zest  to  life,  unknown  before ; 
the  taste  of  variety  had  entered  her  mouth 
and  the  flavor  was  delicious  to  the  palate. 
The  past  years  seemed,  all  in  a  moment, 
bald,  pale,  empty ;  and  she  had  thought  them 
so  peaceful,  so  pleasant,  herself  so  fortunate 
in  being  shielded  from  the  storms  and  ills 
of  life.  She  sighed  to  think  that,  sooner  or 
later,  he  must  go;  but  nothing  could  annihi- 
late her  interest ;  she  could  follow  his  career 
as  she  had  been  wont  to  follow  the  develop- 
ment of  an  engrossing  record  between  the 
covers  of  a  book. 

Another  thing  surprised  and  pleased 
her.  Until  to-day  she  had  never  realized 
how  much  she  had  read,  how  much  she 
knew.  She  had  met  men  who  possessed  the 
subtle  power  of  quickening  her  own  egoism, 
but  this  boy  was  without  art  of  any  sort. 
His  mind  had  touched  hers,  and  struck  fire 


48  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

again  and  again.  She  had  been  able  to  tell 
him  of  books  he  had  not  heard  of,  rare  old 
volumes  in  her  husband's  moulded  library, 
and  he  had  nearly  kissed  her  in  his  enthusi- 
astic gratitude.  It  gave  her  a  keen  sense  of 
exultation  to  be  of  use  to  a  mind  like  that, 
to  feel  that  so  original  and  gifted  a  brain 
could  owe  even  a  trifle  to  her.  But  perhaps 
the  subtlest  pleasure  of  all  lay  in  the  new 
sense  of  companionship.  What  a  lonely  life 
had  hers  been !  Her  companions  had  been 
authors'  marionettes.  Life's  interests,  its  in- 
cidents, had  been  manufactured  for  her,  as 
for  thousands  of  other  solitary  women  ;  and 
she  had  been  able  to  delude  herself  that 
they  were  real  enough  to  fill  her  nature  ! 
She  believed  that  she  should  never  care  to 
read  a  novel  again. 

She  felt  singularly  young — youthful.  As 
he  whirled  her  back  and  forth  in  that  mad 
dance  up  in  the  woods,  twenty-five  years 
slipped  out  of  the  century.  Indifference 
fled,  dignity  vanished;  her  thoughts,  inter- 
ests, capacity  for  pleasure  were  as  vivid  and 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  49 

keen,  as  fresh  and  eager,  as  if  long  years  ago 
she  had  bound  Time's  eyes  about  with  poppy 
wreaths  and  charmed  him  to  eternal  sleep. 

She  went  up  to  the  little  tower  after  a 
time.  For  twenty  years  she  had  not  climb- 
ed those  dusty  old  stairs,  and  as  she  sat 
down  on  a  tottering  chair  before  the  window 
a  rat  darted  across  her  foot  and  scuttled  out 
of  danger.  But  she  did  not  heed  him.  The 
Sound  was  the  same ;  yachts  might  sail  its 
waters,  but  white  beach  and  hoary  rocks 
were  unaltered.  Her  eyes  were  as  dreamy 
as  of  old,  her  thoughts  as  vague  and  con- 
fused. In  mind  and  body  was  a  certain  lan- 
guor— the  languor  of  youth  before  life  has 
set  the  nerves  in  action.  She  lifted  the  rot- 
ting window  and  the  sweet  hot  air  lay 
against  her  face.  It  had  not  been  sweeter 
and  warmer,  more  whispering  and  caressful 
twenty  years  ago.  It  was  the  same,  the 
same ;  and  in  that  hour  she,  too,  was  the 

same. 

4 


V. 


WHEN  she  went  down-stairs  a  servant  told 
her  that  Mr.  Irving  was  in  the  library.  Her 
first  impulse  was  to  refuse  to  see  him;  he 
was  a  component  part  of  the  old  pointless 
existence;  but  the  kindness  of  her  nature 
triumphed  and  she  went  to  the  room  where 
he  awaited  her.  Her  father  and  mother 
dying  during  her  childhood  she  and  her 
brother  had  been  left  to  the  guardianship  of 
Mr.  Irving's  elder  brother.  She  had  seen 
little  of  James  Irving  during  her  early 
youth ;  he  had  been  away  at  college ;  but 
during  her  husband's  lifetime  she  had  found 
him  a  devoted  and  valuable  friend.  Never 
by  word  or  deed  had  he  betrayed  the  exist- 
ence of  deeper  feeling  until  two  years  after 
Mr.  Trevor's  death,  Avhen  he  had  asked  her 
to  marry  him.  Ever  since  that  day  she  had 
nervously  dreaded  a  repetition  of  the  pro- 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  51 

posal.  She  had  refused  a  number  of  men 
with  but  passing  regret  at  inflicting  a 
wound,  but  she  had  a  certain  respect  for 
Mr.  Irving  which  made  her  somewhat  diffi- 
dent about  disputing  his  wishes. 

He  was  standing  by  the  window  when  she 
entered,  his  face  in  stern  silhouette.  A  smile 
transformed  it  as  he  saw  her,  flashing  sweet- 
ness into  the  calm  eyes  and  softening  the 
determined  mouth, 

"  You  have  not  been  to  see  me  for  a  long 
time,7'  she  said,  with  a  soft  cordiality,  natural 
to  her,  deceptive  as  it  was.  "  Did  you  walk 
up  the  hill  ?  Are  you  warm  ?  Sit  in  that 
easy-chair  by  the  window.  It  is  the  coolest 
spot  in  the  house  ? "  Oh,  tender  hypocrisy  ! 
The  wheels  of  life  would  rust  and  stop  were 
cold-hearted  frankness  to  crowd  you  from 
poor  human  nature's  uneven  garden. 

Mr.  Irving  sank  into  the  chair,  and  she 
rang  the  bell  and  ordered  a  glass  of  lemon- 
ade, then  talked  with  him  of  the  passing 
events  of  their  little  world.  She  had  changed 
her  thick  gown  hours  before  for  one  of  white 


52  A  QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

mull.  It  fell  softly  about  her  beautiful 
figure,  and  in  her  belt  she  had  thrust  a 
bunch  of  pink  bay-laurel,  which  Mark  had 
handed  her  when  she  came  down  to  break- 
fast. The  dust  lay  thick  on  the  hem  of  her 
gown,  but  she  had  not  noticed  it.  The 
dreaming  light  was  still  in  her  crystal  eyes, 
and  although  she  had  half  drawn  the  cur- 
tains to  shut  out  the  sun,  a  straggling  ray 
of  light  enriched  the  autumnal  tints  of  her 
hair. 

Mr.  Irving  talked  well;  his  facility  of 
speech  had  given  him  the  first  position  at 
the  Danforth  bar ;  but  suddenly  he  came  to 
an  awkward  pause,  and  after  a  moment  he 
rose  and  took  a  chair  beside  her. 

"  Two  years  ago,"  he  began  slowly,  "  I 
asked  you  to  marry  ms  and  you  refused.  I 
have  no  reason  to  think  that  you  care  any 
more  for  me  to-day,  but  I  am  compelled  to 
speak  again  because  I  love  yon  so  deeply 
that  so  long  as  you  are  free  I  must  strive  to 
win  you." 

There  was  something  print  and  old-fash- 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  53 

ioned  in  his  wooing,  but  his  voice  vibrated, 
and  Boradil  felt  guilty  and  miserable.  "  You 
know  my  life  so  well,"  he  went  on,  "  that  it 
is  hardly  worth  while  for  me  to  tell  you 
what  a  lonely  man  I  am.  I  have  never  mar- 
ried because  I  have  never  loved  any  woman 
but  you.  I  loved  you  when  I  was  a  penni- 
less boy,  when  I  came  home  and  found  they 
had  married  you  to  Mr.  Trevor,  and  dur- 
ing all  the  long  years  since  then — five  and 
twenty,  Boradil.  I  should  still  have  loved 
you  had  the  years  left  their  stamp,  as  on  so 
many  women ;  but  I  am  only  a  man,  and 
perhaps  I  love  you  a  little  better  because  of 
your  beauty.  There  are  other  things  aside 
from  my  daily  life,  however,  which  you 
have  never  guessed.  Shall  I  tell  you — I 
have  often  wanted  to — the  sympathy  of 
your  nature  is  so  exquisite — but  I  fear— 

"  Tell  me,  tell  me,"  she  said,  leaning  for- 
ward eagerly.  Her  friendship  for  him  was 
very  deep,  and  the  moment  he  appealed  to 
her  sympathies  he  existed  in  an  unpeopled 
universe. 


54:  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

"  It  is  not  much,"  he  said,  looking  into  the 
sweet,  cold  eyes,  "  only  a  little  of  one  man's 
inner  life.  I  had  great  aspirations  in  my 
youth,  Boradil.  I  wanted  to  travel,  to  go 
everywhere  on  the  civilized  globe ;  above  all 
to  know  the  world,  to  drink  the  cup  and 
bite  the  dregs.  I  had  the  ardent  tempera- 
ment of  youth  in  those  days,  and  I  wanted 
the  varied,  picturesque,  romantic  career  of  a 
Childe  Harold  and  a  Don  Juan.  You  would 
never  suspect  that,  would  you,  Boradil? 
Well,  no  human  being  ever  did,  so  little  do 
we  know  one  another.  Then  I  wished  to 
be  great  in  my  career.  At  college  I  took 
high  honors  and  I  dreamed  of  being  another 
Webster.  The  power  was  not  in  me,  I 
know  it  now,  but  I  could  have  had  a  wider 
reputation  could  I  have  lived  in  some  great 
city  where  the  pulse  of  the  world  throbbed 
in  my  ears  and  the  friction  of  other  ambi- 
tious minds  forced  mine  to  sharper  edge. 
But  it  could  not  be,  and  you  know  why ; 
for  years  poverty  held  me  here,  then  my 
brother  died  and  left  my  mother  with  no 


A  QUESTION  OF  TIME.  55 

companion  but  myself.  To  have  taken  her 
from  Danforth  would  have  been  like  uproot- 
ing a  garden  flower  and  planting  its  roots  in 
the  crevice  of  a  rock.  I  put  the  thought  of 
it  from  me.  A  year  ago  she  died.  Much 
of  my  ambition  is  gone,  much  of  my  mind's 
elasticity  and  power  to  conquer  obstacles; 
but  with  you — I  could  make  the  effort." 

She  had  listened  with  a  pang  for  every 
word.  The  tragedy  of  that  starved,  barren 
life  appalled  her.  Mark,  with  his  conquer- 
ing genius,  his  splendid  future,  rose  before 
her,  and  made  the  pathos  of  this  man's  por- 
tion deeper  and  more  pitiful.  And  his 
story  was  the  story  of  thousands  and  tens  of 
thousands.  She  could  have  wept  for  the  mis- 
ery of  the  world.  For  the  moment  her  pity 
for  him  was  so  profound  that  she  wished 
to  put  her  hands  about  his  neck  and  give 
him  the  help  and  comfort  his  tired  heart 
implored.  But  even  in  that  moment  of  tur- 
bulent sympathy  a  warning  finger  wrote  on 
her  brain  that  she  would  but  make  his 
misery  and  her  own.  • 


56  A  QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

He  watched  her  transfigured  face  with  the 
keenest  thrill  of  happiness  he  had  ever 
known,  and  half  raised  his  arms.  Then  a 
chill  touched  him  and  vaguely  he  heard  her 
say: 

"  Remember,  dear  friend,  you  are  not  fifty 
37et ;  do  not  talk  of  vigor  and  spirit  having 
left  you.  You  are  in  the  very  prime  of 
man's  years — for  enjoyment  of  life  and  vic- 
tory of  ambition.  I — cannot  marry  you.  I 
do  not  love  you.  Remember,  I  have  known 
one  loveless  marriage.  Go  from  here  and 
love  a  younger  woman.  Think — think  how 
many  women  there  are  in  the  world.  It  is 
impossible — it  must  be  impossible  that  there 
is  but  one  person  on  this  broad  earth  who 
can  give  each  of  us  happiness.  My  God  !  no 
tragedy  could  be  greater  than  that.  Love  is 
so  much  a  matter  of  conditions,  of  propin- 
quity— I  am  sure  that  it  is — I  am  sure  you 
will  love  again — and  far  better  than  you 
have  loved  me." 

"You  speak  from  the  standing-point  of 
one  who  has  never  loved,"  he  said,  bitterly. 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  57 

"  With  all  your  instinctive  knowledge  of 
human  kind,  you  do  not  realize  that  the 
love  of  a  lifetime  can  no  more  be  uprooted 
than  the  earth  could  be  plucked  from  her 
orbit  and  flung  into  space  without  annihila- 
tion. If  I  had  met  you  yesterday  to  leave 
you  to-morrow,  doubtless  I  could  forget  you 
in  time,  but  I  have  loved  you  for  thirty 
years,  and  so  long  as  I  have  my  faculties, 
here  and  elsewhere,  I  shall  continue  to  love 
you." 

His  words  had  chilled  her,  why,  she  did 
not  pause  to  define,  and  her  sympathy  had 
ebbed  a  little.  He  stood  up  and  took  her 
hand. 

"  Good-by,"  he  said  ;  "  I  shall  never  give 
you  up — remember  that.  Not  until  I  see 
you  married  to  another  man." 

"  That  will  never  be,"  she  said. 


VI. 


WHEN  Mark  called  the  next  afternoon 
Boradil  was  sitting  before  a  fresh  canvas 
nibbling  the  end  of  a  brush. 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  come ;  you  will  give 
me  an  inspiration  perhaps,"  she  exclaimed, 
and  then  stopped  suddenly ;  Mark  was  at- 
tended by  no  less  than  six  cats. 

They  had  trooped  in  at  his  heels  and  ar- 
ranged themselves  in  a  semicircle  before 
Boradil,  regarding  her  suspiciously  with 
twelve  green  gleaming  eyes.  Their  bodies 
were  black  as  a  Plutonian  council  chamber, 
and  they  wrere  superb  specimens  of  their 
kind. 

"Are  not  they  beautiful?"  demanded 
Mark,  enthusiastically.  "  They  are  thorough- 
breds, every  one  of  them,  and  know  more 
than  lots  of  men.  There  isn't  anything  they 
can't  do,  except  talk ;  and  for  the  matter  of 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  59 

that  I  can  understand  them  when  they  jab- 
ber among  themselves.  Talk  about  the  in- 
telligence of  a  dog  !  He  can't  hold  a  candle 
to  a  first-class  cat.  Mine  have  good  disposi- 
tions, too,  all  but  that  fellow  over  there. 
He  has  a  temper  !  Well,  his  name  is  Hell. 
But  he  is  the  one  I  love  best." 

The  cats,  with  the  exception  of  Hell,  evi- 
dently approved  of  Boradil,  for  they  went 
about  establishing  themselves  on  her  train 
and  one  jumped  on  to  her  lap.  Hell,  how- 
ever, raised  his  back,  gave  a  brief,  contempt- 
uous hiss,  then  walked  over  to  the  hearthrug 
and  worked  himself  a  comfortable  bed  in  its 
fur. 

"  He  hates  women,"  said  Mark,  apologet- 
ically, "but  he  holds  his  temper  unless  he  is 
teased,  and  he  is  invaluable  for  keeping  the 
other  cats  in  order.  When  they  fight  he 
wallops  them  all  round,  and  they  have  more 
respect  for  him  than  they  have  for  me." 

He  sat  down  on  a  low  chair  beside  her. 

"  Tell  me  all  your  life,"  he  said,  "  every- 
thing. I  want  to  hear  it." 


60  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

"  I  have  told  you  everything." 

"  Not  everything.  I  want  to  know  it  all, 
chapter  by  chapter.  Have  you  never  suf- 
fered any  ?  Is  that  the  reason  you  look  so 
young  \  " 

"  Of  course  I  was  sorry  to  lose  my  baby  ; 
but  I  only  saw  it  once,  you  see — and  that 
was  many  many  years  ago.  I  was  going  to 
say,  before  you  were  born  ;  but  I  had  been 
married  five  years  before  it  came.  A  friend 
of  mine  who  has  suffered  everything  told  me 
once  that  if  no  thinking  woman  married  be- 
fore she  had  known  a  touch  of  the  anguish  of 

o 

which  the  human  heart  is  capable,  that  not 
another  child  would  ever  be  brought  into 
this  world.  I  felt  so  strongly  for  her  that  I 
realized  the  truth  of  what  she  said  and  never 
wished  for  a  child  again.  As  for  my  par- 
ents, they  died  when  I  was  three.  I  don't 
remember  them." 

"  Now  tell  me  all — your  mental  life  at 
least." 

Boradil  began  her  unoriginal  history  to 
humor  him ;  then  the  subtle  sweetness  of  the 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  61 

confessional  possessed  her  and  she  revealed 
herself  more  fully  than  she  had  ever  done  to 
mortal  ears ;  hers  had  been  the  receptive  not 
the  confiding  mind. 

As  she  laid  bare  the  simple  details  of  her 
years  and  her  half -unconscious  mental  evolu- 
tion, Mark  ceased  to  think  her  life  a  tragedy. 
It  seemed  to  him  beautiful  that  a  nature 
could  be  at  once  so  complete  and  so  restful ; 
so  qualified  for  appreciating  the  broader 
interests,  yet  so  lacking  in  ambition ;  so  con- 
tent with  monotony,  yet  so  far  removed  from 
the  commonplace.  Young  as  he  was  he  had 
all  the  restlessness  of  the  gifted  mind,  all  the 
craving  for  recognition  of  the  artist's  nature. 
Behind  his  grand  Sphinx-like  face  burned 
dreams  of  greatness,  a  hot  desire  to  see  the 
world  at  his  feet.  He  felt  as  if  he  had 
stumbled  upon  an  oasis  where  all  was  rest 
and  peace.  He  found  her  unspeakably  sooth- 
ing. Although  his  brain  was  as  big  with 
ideas  and  ambitions  as  when  he  had  entered 
her  presence,  they  did  not  scorch  so  fiercely ; 
it  was  as  if  she  had  laid  a  soft  cool  hand  on 


62  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

a  fevered  spot.  He  looked  at  her  with  the 
sort  of  adoration  an  artist  feels  for  his 
ideal. 

"  I  have  the  greatest  desire  to  work  with 
you  over  something,"  he  said  when  she  had 
finished,  "  to  feel  my  mind  elbow  with  yours, 
as  it  were.  Let  us  do  some  work  in  com- 
mon. I  have  an  idea !  You  paint  a  picture 

and  I  will  write  a  story  to  fit  it 1  will 

begin  when  you  are  half  way  through.  Do 
you  catch  the  idea  ?  Nothing  serious ;  some- 
thing altogether  fanciful  and  romantic." 

"  Very  well,"  she  said,  feeling  that  subtle 
desire  for  communion  as  keenly  as  himself. 
"  I  know  just  what  to  paint.  When  I  was 
in  Boston  last  I  saw  a  little  water  color 
painted  by  an  Englishman,  Francis  James,  I 
think;  and  although  it  was  only  an  interior, 
beautifully  colored  and  exquisitely  done,  yet 
it  always  seemed  to  me  to  suggest  a  story — 
what  I  never  could  tell.  I  leave  that  to 
you." 

He  took  the  cat  from  her  lap  and  she 
began  painting  with  the  broad  strokes  of  the 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  63 

impressionist.  At  the  end  of  an  hour  he 
commenced  to  write.  He  drove  his  pen 
along  with  the  nervous  rapidity  of  one  whose 
brain  is  filled  with  a  sudden  swarm  of  images, 
and  before  the  picture  was  finished  flung  the 
result  on  her  lap.  She  dropped  her  brush 
and  read  eagerly  the  incoherent  fragment  he 
had  called 

A  VAGARY. 

Armor  in  ante-room,  against  dull  red  wall. 
SALVE  in  letters  of  gold  sunk  in  broad  tiles 
of  black  onyx.  Mutticolored,  infinitesimal 
slabs  of  light  flung  from  rose- window  to 
drown  in  the  pellucid  floor.  A  spiral  stair 
winding  past  tapestries  on  the  landings7 
arches.  A  great  curtain  of  blood-red  velvet 
with  a  long  rift  of  light.  Beyond,  a  vast 
room,  yellow  as  sunset ;  curtains  like  the 
sky  on  a  clear  night  when  nature  has  swept 
aside  the  lid  of  her  jewel  casket. 

And  yet — something  more.  Diamonds, 
powdered  hair,  and  black  patches  ....  Spray 
of  lace  and  billow  of  satin  Hands 


64  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

of  steel  under  ruffs  of  lace  .  .  .  weary 
eyes  closing  in  youth's  magnetic  atmos- 
phere .  .  .  music  as  of  mermaids  chant- 
ing Te  Deum  of  uprisen  souls  .  .  .  mur- 
mur of  voices  .  .  .  voluptuous  throb 
of  laughter,  hushed  in  the  throat. 

Gethaught,  sensuously  touched  with  the 
curtain's  half-revealing  mystery,  sank  upon 
a  brawny  chair,  looking  upward  with  heavy 
eyes  to  the  light,  waving  behind  the  rose 
window.  A  spirit  beating  against  the  pane 
for  admittance  ?  .  .  .  A  blue  crescent,  like 
a  curving  sword  cuts  a  thin  dark  face.  Lo  ! 
he  is  a  visitor  whose  earthly  way  had  lain 
through  marble  tombs.  The  light  swings,  a 
red  blade  smites.  He  is  brewing  hell  poison 
in  halls  of  flame. 

A  palpitating  hush  in  the  room  beyond,  a 
mighty  sound  from  brass  and  wood — fainting 
into  a  sea  of  fettered  passion  to  toss  aloft  a 
woman's  voice.  Vaguely  the  soul  of  Get- 
haught leaped — not  to  give  memory  her  claim 
— the  echoes  pealed  back  from  the  future. 

The  music  surged  out  in  resonant  tumultu- 


A  QUESTION  OF  TIME.  65 

ous  waves.  Full,  throbbing,  it  rolled  about 
him,  an  ocean  of  unrest.  It  rose  in  clanging 
chords  of  triumphant  joy,  it  died  in  a  sob  of 
pain.  Then,  bursting  forth  in  thunderous 
harmonies  it  hurled  defiance  at  Time  and  the 
ravenous  abyss  of  space.  Gethaught  breath- 
ed with  exquisite  tremor.  Beat  upon  by 
that  storm  ocean,  swept  from  its  tottering 
throne,  his  Soul  shuddered  from  its  body  and 
cast  itself  upon  the  mighty  quiring  waves. 
The  waves  rose  higher,  higher,  in  eager  swell, 
in  impatient  bondage  —  then  out  into  the 
night  they  rush  to  roll  through  space  in  eager 
flight.  High  on  a  crest  they  carried  the  Soul 
they  had  stolen,  drowning  his  ears  with  rio- 
tous glory  of  sound  .  .  .  lapping  his  swim- 
ming senses  with  wavelets  of  melody  .  .  . 
breaking  in  a  sigh.  They  boomed,  those 
hurrying  waters,  above  vast  choirs  of  mer- 
maids, plaining  for  the  loves  of  earth  .  .  . 
Over  and  above  the  long  swell  rose  the 
Soul,  like  a  cloud  wrapped  peplum-wise 
about  the  wind.  Oh !  the  supernal  beauty 
of  that  singing  ocean  out  in  shoreless  night. 


66  A  QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

The  humming  spheres  held  their  breath. 
Whirling  night -clouds,  black  with  blinded 
sleep  and  big  with  storms,  quivered  to  their 
hearts — then  broke  in  harmless  raindrops. 

And  now  ! — the  waves  grow  longer,  lower, 
calmer  ;  their  voices  fainter,  thinner,  sweeter 
— yet  ever  with  immortality  in  their  farest 
echo 

And  now  ! —  at  extremest  marge  those 
waves  curl  roaringly  up.  They  rise  in  their 
might  and  sweep  back  to  the  Soul.  Why  do 
they  look  like  a  tidal  wave  of  light  as  had 
the  sun  unpent  its  liquid  fires  3  The  great 
wave  nears  him  .  .  .  hovers  above  .  .  . 
in  it  are  infinite  currents  .  .  .  each  cur- 
rent fine  as  thread  of  flame.  .  .  . 

It  rolls  softly  about  him  .  .  .  back 
whence  it  came  ...  as  if  ...  far 
away  ...  an  imperious  hand  held  the 
spring  of  those  golden  threads.  .  .  . 

Music  no  longer  ...  a  fragrance  in- 
effable streaming  from  the  clinging  meshes 
of  a  woman's  hair.  ...  In  deeps  .  .  . 
on  heights  .  .  .  roll  the  waves  .  .  . 


A  QUESTION  OF  TIME.  67 

deeper  sinks  the  Soul  fainting  in  that  won- 
drous perfume  .  .  .  twist  and  twine 
and  sting  the  golden  serpents  .  .  .  bit- 
ing with  life's  sweet  venom.  .  .  . 

A  shock.  That  harmonious  motion  ceases. 
Have  the  waves  broken  upon  a  rock  ?  The 
Soul  knows  only  sudden  still.  No  !  no  rock 
has  called  to  pause  those  perfumed  waves. 
He  is  pressed  closer  .  .  .  closer  .  .  . 
arms  strong,  supple.  .  .  .  Where  has  he 
felt  that  long,  lithe  touch  before  ?  Where 
has  he  not  ?  .  .  .  Back  through  the  ages 
through  the  world's  forgotten 
pages.  .  .  . 

Down  through  the  golden  haze  burn  two 
fires,  their  flames  green  and  scorching.  .  .  . 

Shriek!  Shriek!  Shriek!  The  hideous 
discord !  She  has  loosed  her  hold !  She 
has  flung  him  from  her !  She  has  hurled 
him  down  into  an  icy  vortex  !  In  his  ears 
screech.  .  . 

Gethaught,  blindly  stumbling,  stood  in  the 
great  room  beyond  the  curtain.  The  music 
had  crashed  to  silence.  Powdered  men  and 


68  A  QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

courtly  dames  surged,  trembling,  to  and  fro. 
Sobs  and  cries  smote  the  fading  notes. 

"  She  is  dead  !  " 

"  She  has  only  swooned  ! " 

The  music  rolling  through  the  halls  of  his 
soul,  sharp  fire  on  his  mouth,  Gethaught 
flung  the  crowd  asunder  and  leaped  to  the 
stage.  A  woman  lay  prone.  Her  ice- white 
face  was  still  as  death.  Through  the  gossa- 
mer lids  shone  the  green  of  her  eyes.  About 
her  fell  billows  of  boiling  gold.  He  caught 
her  in  his  arms — close,  hard  !  He  fled  through 
the  startled  throng,  across  the  ante-cham- 
ber, up  the  spiral  stair.  The  tapestry  swept 
apart,  a  great  key  turned.  High  in  the 
stone  wall  was  a  window,  against  it  lay  the 
moon.  He  placed  the  woman's  feet  to  the 
floor,  holding  her  against  him,  crushing  her 
with  cries  of  fear.  He  wound  her  hair 
about  him,  pressing  his  lips  to  her  pulsing 
face.  As  she  awakened  the  warmth  of  her 
body  filled  the  room.  Angry  hands  beat 
the  stout  old  door.  The  echoes  whispered 
the  Song  of  Songs. 


VII. 

THE  writing  was  nervously  irregular,  al- 
most illegible  in  places,  but  Boradil  deci- 
phered it.  As  she  laid  down  the  pages  she 
looked  up  to  find  Mark  standing  in  front  of 
her. 

"That  is  nothing — a  chaotic  trifle,"  he 
said,  rapidly.  "  But  I  want  to  write.  For 
months  I  have  had  an  idea  in  my  mind. 
Will  you  let  me  write  here  ?  I  do  not  know 
why,  but  I  feel  that  I  could  write  better  if 
you  were  near  me." 

She  rose  and  opened  the  door  leading  into 
the  larger  library. 

"  Go  in  there,"  she  said.  "  No  one  will 
disturb  you." 

"  And  you  will  not  leave  this  room  ? 
Promise  me." 

"  I  promise,'7  she  said,  and  for  a  moment 
she,  too,  felt  a  feverish  exaltation. 


70  A  QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

As  the  door  closed  behind  him  the  six 
cats  made  a  wild  dash  at  it,  five  of  them 
mewing  piteously,  Hell  leaving  the  marks  of 
his  claws  on  the  dark  oak  panel.  Boradil 
gave  the  shepherd  of  the  flock  a  wide  berth, 
but  knelt  among  the  others  striving  to  coax 
them  into  resignation.  But  they  sat  limp 
and  woe-begone,  refusing  to  be  comforted 
until  she  sent  for  some  milk,  when  they 
gorged  themselves,  Hell  included,  and  were 
shortly  oblivious  of  affection's  bonds. 

Boradil  ordered  her  supper  brought  to  her 
and  sat  through  the  long  evening  with  her 
dreaming  eyes  on  the  library  door.  She  had 
never  rebelled  against  her  lot ;  but  to-night 
she  knew  absolute  contentment.  The  past 
was  annihilated,  the  future  a  blank.  She 
was  touched  with  the  exquisite  sense  of  be- 
ing necessary  to  another.  She  felt  complete, 
perfected.  It  was  as  if  Nature  had  sudden- 
ly lifted  the  curtain  of  her  Holy  of  Holies 
and  shown  her  the  heart  of  the  world  shak- 
ing with  all  men's  motives,  passions,  dreams, 
and  high  endeavor. 


A  QUESTION  OF  TIME.  71 

She  moved  her  head  from  side  to  side. 
She  felt  intoxicated  with  her  new  knowl- 
edge, the  new  sphere  into  which  she  had 
been  lifted.  But  two  people  dwelt  therein, 
the  air  throbbed  with  their  united  purpose 
and  victory. 

She  rose  once  and  listened  at  the  door,  but 
the  oak  was  thick  and  she  heard  no  sound. 
She  shook  her  head  impatiently,  then  re- 
turned to  her  chair. 

As  the  night  wore  on  the  cats  awoke  and 
sprang  upon  her  lap.  She  pressed  them 
closely,  feeling  the  sudden  necessity  for  liv- 
ing warmth.  There  is  something  wonder- 
fully satisfying  about  a  cat  when  one  is  but 
vaguely  lonely,  and  uo  cats  were  ever  more 
soft  and  yielding  than  these  afflicted  five. 
After  a  time,  however,  a  succession  of  short 
emphatic  hisses  recalled  them  to  the  hearth- 
rug, and  they  deserted  her  once  more. 

Midnight  had  come  and  gone  when  Mark 
opened  the  library  door  and  threw  himself 
on  his  knees  before  Boradil,  burying  his  face 
in  her  lap. 


73  A  QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

"  I  am  tired,"  he  murmured,  "  tired.  Let 
me  stay  here  a  moment." 

She  clasped  her  hands  across  his  head  and 
bent  over  him,  filled  with  a  sort  of  maternal 
ecstasy.  It  came  to  her  for  the  first  time  in 
her  barren  life.  She  had  been  too  ill  when 
her  child  was  born  to  feel  anything  beyond 
the  pangs  of  motherhood,  but  now  the  in- 
stinct flowered  to  its  full.  As  if  her  firm 
warm  fingers  transmitted  this  new  gift  which 
had  come  to  him,  he  raised  his  head,  regard- 
ing her  with  adoration.  His  face  was  pale ; 
all  the  light  had  gone  out  of  it  but  what 
she  had  awakened. 

UI  want  to  stay  with  you,"  he  said,  "  to  be 
something  to  you  —  I  hardly  know  what. 
But  promise  me  that  I  need  never  leave  you. 
And  I  never  wrote  as  I  did  to-night." 

"  Why  should  you  go  ? "  she  said. 

She  rose  and  led  him  to  a  table  where  sup- 
per had  been  spread,  and  after  he  had  fin- 
ished she  made  him  lie  on  a  divan,  and 
watched  him  as  he  slept  until  the  day  was 
near  its  prime. 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  73 

When  he  awoke  she  held  disappeared,  and 
he  left  the  house  at  once  and  struck  across 
the  fields  to  his  aunt's  home,  followed  by  his 
devoted  and  hungry  cats.  His  head  felt 
emptied  of  ideas,  and  ambition  for  the  mo- 
ment was  felled  by  exhaustion,  but  he  had  a 
light  sense  of  exultation  that  a  long  torturing 
conception  had  forced  its  way  to  paper  and 
left  him  free.  For  the  time  being  his  interest 
in  the  poem  was  gone,  but  he  knew  that  when 
he  began  the  revision,  fire  and  energy  would 
return.  For  the  present  he  was  divided 
between  a  profound  sense  of  thankfulness, 
almost  of  obligation,  to  Mrs.  Trevor,  and  an 
uneasy  speculation  regarding  his  aunt's  view 
of  his  prolonged  absence. 


VIII. 

MRS.  BREWSTER  was  the  acknowledged 
leader  of  the  exclusive  set  in  Danforth,  part- 
ly because  of  her  strong  personality,  partly 
owing  to  the  fact  that  she  had  spent  every 
winter  of  her  life  in  Boston,  and  was  the  one 
woman-of-the-world  the  little  circle  boasted. 
She  was  a  tall  woman,  matronly  in  appear- 
ance, but  possessing  extreme  elegance  and 
pride  of  carriage.  Her  iron  gray  hair  was 
drawn  high  over  a  pompadour  roll,  and  her 
low  forehead  was  well -shaped.  Ambition 
and  life's  annoyances  had  drawn  lines  on  her 
face,  and  her  mouth  was  little  more  than  a 
straight  line,  but  her  fair  skin  was  still  clear. 
Her  small  gray  eyes  were  cold  and  peculiar- 
ly capable  of  a  round,  hard,  embarrassing 
stare.  She  was  fifty  and  she  looked  her  age, 
but  she  was  an  interesting  woman  still,  part- 
ly owing  to  her  indomitable  will,  partly  to  a 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  75 

certain  suggestion  of  passion  beneath  the 
trained  almost  aggressive  placidity  of  her 
face. 

She  had  borne  seven  daughters  and  married 
six  of  them  to  men  of  family  and  wealth, 
scheming  and  managing  to  that  end  until,  as 
a  candid  friend  told  her  one  day,  each  son- 
in-law  had  presented  her  with  a  new  wrinkle. 
Power  she  worshipped,  and  to  power  and 
ambition  she  had  sacrificed  the  love  of  her 
husband  and  children,  and  the  springs  of  her 
youth.  Whatever  noble  and  spontaneous 
impulse  had  originally  dwelt  within  her 
nature  had  been  warped  out  of  it  long  ago, 
and  she  ruled  her  family  with  a  rod  which 
bent  their  heads  and  cauterized  their  hearts. 
It  was  a  cruel  disappointment  to  her  that  she 
had  not  a  fortune  large  enough  to  make  her 
the  same  being  of  paramount  importance  in 
Boston  that  she  was  in  Danforth,  and  the 
bitterest  moment  of  her  life  had  been  when 
a  great  New  York  woman  failed  to  recognize 
her  the  second  time  they  met. 

She  had  not  been  on  cordial  terms  with 


76  A  QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

her  brother,  John  Saltonstall,  for  many  years, 
an  unpleasantness  having  resulted  from  the 
lady's  desire  to  wave  her  rod  over  Mrs.  Sal- 
tonstalFs  head.  The  young  wife  had  re- 
sented her  interference  with  no  little  spirit, 
and  being  upheld  by  a  doting  husband,  a 
family  breach  had  ensued.  After  Mrs.  Sal- 
tonstall's  death  neither  brother  nor  sister  had 
made  any  attempt  to  close  the  wound,  until 
the  talk  of  Mark's  genius  had  prompted  Mrs. 
Brewster  to  drive  out  to  Harvard  and  make 
much  of  her  promising  nephew.  When  she 
troubled  herself  to  be  fascinating  she  suc- 
ceeded, and  when  she  invited  Mark  to  spend 
the  summer  with  her,  promising  him  an  un- 
used building  for  his  brutes,  he  found  the 
prospect  attractive. 

Mark  stood  somewhat  in  awe  of  his  im- 
perious aunt,  and  as  after  housing  his  cats,  he 
mounted  the  verandah  steps  and  faced  the 
cold  white  glare  of  her  eyes,  he  felt  the  full 
force  of  her  famous  personality. 

"  Where  have  you  been  ?  "  she  demanded, 
with  an  ominous  sharpness  in  her  voice. 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  77 

"The  servants  have  been  out  all  night  look- 
ing for  you." 

He  had  intended  to  make  a  clear  statement 
of  facts,  but  unconventional  as  he  was,  it 
suddenly  occurred  to  him  that  the  truth 
would  place  Mrs.  Trevor  in  an  unpleasant 
position ;  he  had  spent  the  night  in  her 
house.  A  sense  of  her  unselfishness  thrilled 
him  and  brought  with  it  the  desire  to  protect 
her. 

In  the  meantime  his  aunt  was  awaiting  his 
answer. 

He  looked  into  her  penetrating  eyes  from 
the  baffling  depths  of  his  own. 

11 1  took  a  boat  and  rowed  up  the  Sound," 
he  said.  "  I  wished  to  think  out  a  poem, 
and  the  water  always  helps  me." 

And  then  he  drew  a  long  breath  and  raised 
his  head  proudly,  almost  triumphantly.  He 
felt  ten  years  older.  He  had  lied  for  a 
woman !  The  blood  rushed  through  his 
veins  faster  for  a  moment,  and  he  mentally 
kissed  the  white  small  hands  which  had 
clasped  his  head  a  few  hours  before. 


78  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

"  Your  poem  seems  to  have  been  a  suc- 
cess," remarked  his  aunt,  dryly. 

"  Yes/'  he  said,  looking  calmly  at  her,  "  it 
was.  But  I  am  more  sorry  than  I  can  say 
to  have  put  you  to  so  much  worry  and 
trouble.  I  was  a  brute  not  to  have  sent  you 
word.  Will — will  it  prevent  my  having  any 
breakfast  ?  I  could  eat  an  ox." 

"  Go  into  the  dining  -  room,"  said  Mrs. 
Brewster,  severely,  "  breakfast  is  waiting  for 
you." 


IX. 


"WELL,  I  never  thought  of  it  personally," 
said  Mark,  "  but  knowing  the  strength  and 
solitariness  of  the  artistic  nature,  I  can  safe- 
ly assert  that  no  artist  worth  the  name  could 
love  a  mere  human  being  better  than  his 
art.  He  can  love,  of  course,  but  it  will  oc- 
cupy, say,  one-third  of  his  life." 

Redfield  Hopkins  picked  up  a  stone  im- 
patiently and  threw  it  into  the  lake. 

"  A  mere  human  being  ?  You  speak  as  if 
man  were  not  the  highest  of  God's  achieve- 
ments." 

Mark  lifted  his  shoulders.  "  God  created 
man,  and  man  created  literature." 

Hopkins  laughed  outright.  "  I  admire 
your  egoism,  at  least.  It  is  sublime.  Do 
you  mean  to  say  that  that  is  all  God  had  in 
view  when  He  created  man  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  not.     I  merely  mean  that  since 


80  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

He  has  allowed  man  to  create  something 
better  than  himself.  He  has  nothing  to  say 
if  an  occasional  man  prefers  it  to  his  own 
kind." 

"  You  speak  from  the  viewing-point  of  a 
man  of  genius,  which  is  a  narrow  one,  genius 
being  rare.  You  are  too  young  to  have 
lived  much,  especially  as  you  have  been  too 
absorbed  with  your  imagination  to  dabble 
in  facts.  I  am  no  older,  it  is  true,  but  I 
have  been  in  love  several  times,  and  have 
seen  a  -fair  share  of  the  byways  of  life 
wherein  the  ladies  of  the  lower  ten  thousand 
take  their  constitutionals.  I  can  tell  you 
that  when  the  human  element  gets  hold  of 
you,  you  are  no  stronger  than  a  beam  in  the 
middle  of  a  burning  house,  and  you  go  into 
love  head  foremost  and  remain  with  your 
heels  kicking  in  the  air.  Oh,  I  have  seen  it 
a  hundred  times.  My  own'  case  is  nothing. 
Do  you  remember  Ned  Griswold  ?  He  was 
the  brainiest  man  in  his  class.  Talked  like 
a  book  and  graduated  at  seventeen.  Drank 
himself  to  death  because  a  woman  wouldn't 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  81 

have  him.  Then  there  was  Jack  Latimer. 
We  all  predicted  that  Harvard  would  have 
the  honor  of  giving  to  America  the  first 
artist  of  his  day  and  generation.  What  did 
he  do  but  go  and  study  medicine  because 
the  girl  he  was  in  love  with  did  not  approve 
of  poor  artists  and  Bohemia  generally.  He 
is  now  flourishing  in  his  father-in-law's  prac- 
tice, and  is  getting  stout  and  has  six  brats 
to  feed.  But  he  looks  quite  happy,  and  I 
never  heard  him  say  that  he  regretted  it." 

"  Probably  he  does  not.  He  is  not  a  case 
in  point,  for  he  was  not  a  man  of  genius. 
He  was  a  clever  painter  and  tremendously 
popular.  The  combination  does  not  make 
genius,  although  the  world  has  pulled  the 
wool  over  its  eyes  several  times  in  that  re- 
gard. Cleverness,  the  great  American  char- 
acteristic, he  possessed  to  an  unusual  degree, 
but  there  was  never  anything  in  his  work  to 
make  you  marvel,  to  lift  you  up ;  in  a  word, 
to  suggest  the  unsuspected  wonders  revealed 
by  a  microscope.  As  for  Griswold,  he  was 
stuffed  full  of  other  men's  lore,  and  he  re- 


82  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

delivered  it  in  ponderous  and  impressive 
sentences.  He  absorbed  everything  and 
gave  out  nothing.  Genius  is  the  faculty  of 
creating  something  out  of  nothing,  of  seeing 
what  does  not  show  itself  to  common  eyes, 
of  giving  the  world  a  new  figure  clothed  in 
a  new  garment.  And  the  man  who  can  do 
that  can  never  be  dominated  by  a  weaker 
passion — beyond  the  moment.  I  may  not 
have  gone  through  the  actual  throes  of  love, 
but  I  understand  it,  respect  it,  and  know  my 
own  capacity,  or  rather  the  capacity  of  my 
kind ;  I  have  not  spent  much  time  in  self- 
analysis.  I  shall  love,  of  course,  with  pas- 
sion, affection,  and  friendship ;  I  feel  capa- 
ble of  all  three,  as  well  as  of  tenacity.  And 
if  I  speak  from  my  vie  wing-point  only,  I  at 
least  understand  it  quite  as  well  as  you  do 
yours.  It  is  always  a  mistake  to  generalize. 
Men  are  not  all  cut  out  with  the  same  pair  of 
scissors,  except  in  superficial  traits,  and  the 
unrecognition  of  this  fact  has  been  the  stum- 
bling block  of  many  a  would-be  analyst.  If 
I  loved  a  woman  I  would  have  her,  if  I  stood 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  83 

the  Sound  on  end.  Having  her,  I  should 
continue  to  love  her,  if  she  were  in  sympathy 
with  me ;  but  she  could  never  control  me 
mentally  nor  sit  on  high  with  my  work.  As 
for  giving  it  up  one  year  of  this  short  life  to 
please  her — I  should  hate  her  if  she  pro- 
posed such  a  thing.  She  must  accept  the 
second  place,  for  I  should  be  incapable  of 
offering  her  the  first.  Art  is  as  much  a 
master  as  a  slave.  You  are  dominated  by 
the  spirit  of  it  while  you  are  pressing  the 
soft  clay  between  your  hands.  And  then, 
when  ambition  grafts  itself  on  success — my 
God  !  the  combination  is  appalling.  Just 
imagine  a  '  mere  human  being '  trying  to 
rival  that.  But  there  is  no  reason  why  a 
man  of  genius  should  not  be  a  married  man 
and  happy,  if  his  wife  is  sympathetic  and 
knows  when  to  let  him  alone.  Clear  out.  I 
want  to  take  a  swim,  and  the  lake  is  not  big 
enough  for  two." 

Redfield  obediently  went  home.  The  lake 
lay  in  the  midst  of  a  thick  chestnut  wood  on 
the  edge  of  the  Brewster  estate,  and  was  re- 


84  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

served  for  swimming.  To-day  Mark  lay  in 
the  water  longer  than  usual,  floating  idly. 
In  addition  to  the  mental  supineness  due  to 
reaction,  was  a  certain  physical  languor, 
which  he  did  not  understand.  His  health 
was  too  vigorous  to  resent  a  night's  toil. 
Moreover,  it  was  pleasant ;  so  it  could  hard- 
ly be  allied  with  illness  ;  and  he  drifted  con- 
tentedly with  his  face  upturned  to  the  heat- 
faded  sky,  his  body  moving  gently  in  the 
warm  luxurious  water.  Finally,  he  floated 
into  a  little  wing  of  the  lake  where  the 
water  was  cold,  so  thick  were  the  embracing 
boughs  above.  Green  were  the  low  banks, 
green  the  slender  trees,  green  the  thousand 
leaves  reflected  in  the  pool.  So  quiet  was 
the  surface  that  serpent-stemmed  vines 
seemed  rising  from  the  pebbled  floor  to 
twine  about  the  long  body  lying  motionless 
above  them.  So  thick  were  the  branches 
the  pool  seemed  but  the  floor  of  a  cave,  but 
through  a  rift  in  the  crowding  trees,  a  patch 
of  sunlight  quivered  afErightedly  in  the 
gloom. 


A   QUESTION  OF   TIME.  85 

Mark  found  in  this  corner  that  absolute 
quiet  which  said  so  much  more  to  him  than 
the  most  magical  of  earth's  sounds.  Around 
the  outer  lake  the  birds  sang,  but  the  dark- 
ness repelled  them  here,  and  only  the  leaves 
made  silent  music.  The  chill  touched  him 
after  a  time  and  he  shot  out  to  the  soft 
waters  of  the  lake,  darting  back  and  forth 
until  the  blood  in  his  veins  was  warm  once 
more.  Then  he  lay  looking  at  the  dense 
wood  with  the  black  shadows  in  its  narrow 
aisles.  The  thick  trees  closed  the  vista,  and 
the  wood  looked  as  if  it  might  be  infinite, 
primeval.  His  imagination  half  opened  its 
eyes,  and  he  saw  a  prehistoric  self  roaming 
amidst  the  trees,  on  the  edge  of  chaos,  the 
hills  and  forests,  the  valleys  and  plains  of 
the  convulsing  earth  as  yet  untangled,  his 
echoless  solitude  unshared.  Running  up 
and  down  the  aisles  of  the  green  wood, 
bounding  in  the  air  like  a  deer,  leaping  over 
fallen  trees,  throwing  himself  on  the  soft, 
green  earth,  and  kissing  it  with  the  passion 
of  a  lover;  once  leaping  far  out  into  the 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

lake,    breaking   the    surface   into    swinging 


waves 


He  came  to  himself  with  a  gasp.     His 
mouth  was  full  of  water. 


X. 


MARK  SALTONSTALL,  like  all  men  of  genius, 
was,  as  he  bad  admitted,  an  egoist.  Not 
vain  or  conceited,  bat  born  with  a  supreme 
consciousness  of  power,  and  a  habit  of  focus- 
ing the  world  to  his  own  large,  but  individ- 
ual, vision.  A  natural  phase  of  this  self- 
consciousness  was  his  proneness  to  morbid 
attacks  of  self-doubt,  when  he  questioned 
whether  his  genius  were  not  youthful  efflor- 
escence ;  his  ambition,  self-love ;  his  enthu- 
siasms, gush.  At  such  times  the  world  be- 
came a  blank  and  he  wanted  to  die.  It  was 
in  one  of  these  moods  that  he  sought  Bora- 
dil  the  next  evening. 

She  was  sitting  on  the  verandah  as  he 
walked  up  the  path.  A  white  shawl  was 
drawn  about  her  head  and  bust,  and  she  sat 
a  little  side  wise,  leaning  back.  It  was  a 
graceful  attitude,  full  of  repose,  and  she 


88  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

looked  very  young.  Mark  threw  himself 
heavily  in  a  chair  opposite ;  his  face  was 
sullen,  and  more  like  carven  granite  than 
usual.  Boradil  divined  at  once  that  the 
blues  held  him  fast,  and  while  talking  of  in- 
different things,  let  him  feel  her  sympathy 
in  every  inflection  of  her  voice.  He  slid 
down  at  her  feet  after  a  time,  and  put  his 
head  on  her  lap  like  an  indulged  child. 

"  What  is  the  trouble?  "  she  asked.  She 
did  not  put  her  hand  to  his  head,  but  he  was 
not  repulsed. 

"  I  have  been  wondering — I  often  do — if 
life  as  a  whole  is  worth  while  as  compared 
to  the  little  we  are  allowed  to  get  out  of  it. 
On  Friday  night  I  was  mad  with  enthusiasm, 
bursting  with  fervor.  I  felt  the  equal  of 
any  man,  living  or  dead.  To-night  I  feel 
commonplace,  empty,  cold." 

"  I  think  Aunt  Anne  has  something  to  do 
with  it  this  time,"  he  continued,  after  a  mo- 
ment ;  "  that  woman  has  the  most  blighting 
effect  on  me.  I  talked  to  her  for  two  hours 
last  evening,  and  she  obtained  that  peculiar 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  89 

and  strong,  if  temporary,  control  over  me, 
that  commonplace  people  always  do  —  she 
made  me  feel  commonplace.  It  is  the  same 
when  I  read  a  cleverly-trashy  book ;  I  feel 
for  the  moment  that  I  do  not  know  the  dif- 
ference between  such  stuff  and  high  achieve- 
ment. I  never  have  this  experience  with  a 
man  who  is  my  superior  in  knowledge, 
or  when  I  read  a  great  book.  I  am  only 
stimulated  and  encouraged  then,  never  de- 
pressed because  someone  else  has  splen- 
did gifts.  I  do  not  mean  that  Aunt  Anne 
is  a  nonentity.  On  the  contrary,  she  has 
character  and  individuality  of  a  strong, 
if  conventional,  sort.  I  mean  that  her 
4  thinker '  and  all  her  aims  and  ambitious  are 
deadly  commonplace,  and,  what  is  worse,  that 
she  has  a  secret  contempt  for  literature  and 
artistic  ambition.  I  feel  sure  that  she  has 
far  more  respect  for  the  leader  of  a  german 
than  for  any  author  living  or  dead.  She 
never  acknowledges  this,  but  she  conveys  it ; 
and  as  I  hear  her  talk  with  lingering  pride 
of  '  swells '  and  '  position,'  '  social  honors  ' 


90  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

and  '  good  form,'  I  feel  as  if  my  head  were 
slowly  flattening,  and  I  find  myself  wonder- 
ing if  I  am  not  all  wrong  and  she  all  right. 
I  have  felt  this  often  —  this  tremendous 
psychological  power  of  atmosphere  (I  do  not 
know  what  other  word  to  give  it ;  but  it  is 
certainly  foggy  and  nearly  chokes  me),  but 
never  so  strongly  as  with  her ;  probably  be- 
cause in  her  way  she  is  such  a  clever  woman, 
and  delivers  her  narrow  views  with  such 
calm  belief  in  her  infallibility.  She  ex- 
claims with  a  burst  of  actual  enthusiasm, 
'  Margaret  Hunt  is  the  swellest  woman  in 
America,'  and  I  feel  a  snob  myself  and  ex- 
perience a  contempt  for  literature.  She  di- 
lates upon  the  polished  elegance  of  her  sons- 
in-law,  and  I  feel  like  an  awkward  giant  and 
aspire  to  be  approved  by  my  cousins,  who 
would  probably  bore  me  to  death  in  half  an 
hour.  Of  course  this  is  all  of  the  moment, 
but  while  it  lasts  it  has  a  bad  effect  on  a 
sensitive  nature.  It  gives  one  a  listless  dis- 
gust of  life  that  is  worse  than  fierce  despair. 
What  is  the  use  of  denying  it — I  need  to  be 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  91 

flattered,  encouraged — and  continually.  It 
does  not  make  me  conceited.  It  merely 
keeps  me  out  of  the  slough.  The  higher  the 
pedestal  I  am  put  on,  the  better  work  I  can 
do.  Abuse,  even  stinging  criticism,  stimu- 
lates me,  but  the  calm  superiority  of  inferior 
minds  simply  demoralizes  me." 

"  Then  you  should  get  away  from  such 
people  as  quickly  as  possible.  You  owe  a 
more  peremptory  duty  to  yourself  than  to 
your  kinspeople." 

"  I  cannot  go  without  leaving  you,  and  I 
never  wish  to  do  that.  If  I  leave  my  aunt's 
house  I  must  leave  Danforth,  for  I  have  no 
excuse  to  go  to  an  hotel." 

"I  wish  I  could  ask  you  here,"  she  said, 
regretfully,  "  but  it  would  never  do.  I  am  all 
alone,  you  see,  and  young  as  you  are,  people 
are  always  waiting  for  something  to  gossip 
about,  especially  in  a  little  place  like  this." 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  exclaimed  suddenly, 
"  it  was  awfully  good  of  you  to  let  me  stay 
here  all  night,  and  I  was  a  brute  to  be  so 
thoughtless." 


92  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

"  Sometimes  things  cannot  be  helped.  To 
have  interrupted  you  would  have  been  an 
unpardonable  act  of  petty  egotism,  and  la- 
ter, immediate  rest  seemed  to  me  impera- 
tive." 

"  Your  one  instinct  was  to  take  care  of 
me,"  he  said,  triumphantly. 

"  Fortunately  no  one  saw  you,"  she  an- 
swered, evasively. 

"  You  are  an  angel,  all  the  same,  or  what 
is  better,  a  perfect  woman.  I  do  not  wish 
you  were  my  mother — 1  cannot ;  it  is  too 
ridiculous.  But  I  do  wish  you  were  some- 
thing to  me,  and  that  I  could  live  with  you 
always.  Your  effect  on  me  is  the  exact  op- 
posite of  Aunt  Anne  Brewster's.  My  blues 
have  gone  already.  You  make  me  feel  that 
I  am  equal  to  the  achievement  of  my  wildest 
ambitions.  You  say  little ;  it  is  your  mys- 
terious power.  It  is  because  you  understand 
and  sympathize,  respect,  and  above  all  believe. 
I  feel  sure  you  never  doubt  me,  and  that  you 
place  me  one  or  two  planes  higher  than  the 
leader  of  a  cotillion.  With  you  I  should 


A  QUESTION  OF  TIME.  93 

never  be  blue  or  discouraged ;  or  if  moods 
came  from  reaction  you  would  flatter  them 
away,  but  so  subtly  that  I  should  not  recog- 
nize the  art  until  I  analyzed  you  in  the  soli- 
tude of  my  room — as  I  do  every  night.  I 
understand  you,  but  it  only  makes  me  like 
you  the  better.  Ah  !  why  cannot  I  live  with 
you  ?  Only  commonplace  people  were  made 
for  conditions.  For  the  matter  of  that  I 
might  get  my  father  to  come  and  live  with 
us;  then  it  would  be  all  right.  Or  you 
might  come  and  live  with  us  in  Boston." 

A  faint  smile  touched  her  mouth.  "  It  is 
a  sad  day  for  a  woman's  vanity  when  the 
conventions  no  longer  concern  themselves 
with  her.  Perhaps  that  consoles  me  for 
being  denied  the  pleasure  of  living  with  two 
delightful  men — for  I  make  sure  your  father 
is  delightful.  No ;  I  must  live  here  by  my- 
self and  be  content  with  flying  visits  from 
you.  Perhaps,  however,  I  may  go  to  Boston 
next  winter." 

"  Will  you  promise  me  that  ?  "  he  asked, 
eagerly. 


94  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

"  Yes ;  why  not  ?  I  should  like  to  spend 
a  winter  in  Boston.  I  have  not  gone  before 
because  I  dreaded  being  lonesome  in  a  great 
city.  I  do  not  care  for  Anne  Brews ter  and 
her  family,  and  I  know  no  one  else  there." 

"  I  will  show  you  every  inch  of  Boston  and 
introduce  some  splendid  men  to  you — big 
men,  big,  I  mean,  with  talent  and  brains/' 

"  I  like  intellectual  men.  I  never  have 
pretended  to  be  clever  myself,  but  for  some 
reason  I  can  get  along  better  with  clever  men 
than  with  mediocrities.  I  suppose  it  is  be- 
cause I  hate  to  talk  and  .like  to  listen." 

"  Clever  men  will  always  worship  you,  be- 
cause you  draw  out  the  best  that  is  in  them 
and  spur  their  desire  to  win  your  admira- 
tion. You  have  an  air  of  being  interested 
only  in  their  best,  and  of  being  equally  sure 
that  it  is  there." 

"  Will  you  do  something  for  me ! "  he 
added  abruptly,  after  a  moment. 

"What?" 

"  Spend  a  whole  night  in  the  woods  with 
me?" 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  95 

"What!" 

"  It  is  a  romantic  fancy,  but  I  always 
cherished  a  wish  to  walk  about  all  night  with 
an  absolutely  companionable  woman,  even 
before  I  believed  that  she  existed  outside  of 
my  imagination.  I  have  often  spent  whole 
nights  tramping  about  with  my  father.  But 
with  you  it  would  be  like  the  painting  of  an 
ideal" 

She  mused  for  a  moment.  The  risk  and 
unconventionality  appealed  to  her  as  they  do 
to  all  women  who  have  spent  a  goodly  num- 
ber of  years  in  strict  observance  of  the  pro- 
prieties. No  girl  ever  feels  the  subtle  charm 
of  committing  an  act  open  to  misinterpreta- 
tion as  does  a  woman  whose  face  is  turned  to 
the  west. 

And  how  often  does  an  elderly  woman 
fairly  revel  in  being  accused  of  the  sins  of 
youth,  and  bare  her  torso  at  a  ball  after  a 
fashion  to  make  a  girl  blush  and  gasp.  Of 
this  development  Boradil  was  incapable, 
having  too  exquisite  and  dainty  a  womanli- 
ness ;  but  she  was  still  a  woman. 


96  A  QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  will  go." 

"  Then  I  will  be  here  to-morrow  night  at 
ten." 

And  a  little  later  he  left  her  and  whistled 
gayly  all  the  way  home.  He  was  but  a  boy, 
after  all. 


XL 


THE  next  afternoon  Elnora  Brewster  re- 
turned home  after  six  years  abroad.  Mark 
had  quite  forgotten  her  intended  arrival 
when  he  made  plans  for  her  first  night  at 
home,  and  in  truth  he  took  little  interest  in 
her.  He  had  privately  made  up  his  mind 
that  if  he  found  her  a  bore  he  would  ask  his 
aunt's  permission  to  take  up  his  quarters  in 
the  old  building  with  his  cats  and  toads. 

Reminded  of  his  duty,  he  went  to  the  sta- 
tion to  meet  his  cousin,  and  was  impressed 
only  by  the  fact  that  she  looked  older  than 
Boradil,  although  she  had  not  yet  recorded 
her  twenty-third  birthday.  Tall,  slender, 
and  perfectly  poised,  she  had  that  air  of  ab- 
solute repose  which  a  woman  rarely  acquires 
before  thirty,  and  more  rarely  still  before 
marriage.  She  looked  as  if  nothing  could 
startle  her,  nothing  shake  her  still  self-corn- 


98  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

raancl.  Her  face  was  one  of  remarkable 
contradictions,  almost  incongruities.  Will 
held  the  full  red  curves  of  her  mouth  in 
check.  Beneath  her  turban  was  a  great  coil 
of  ashen  hair.  Her  eyes  resembled  nothing 
so  much  as  the  moon.  They  were  a  brilliant 
icy-gray,  polaric,  chilling.  The  sweeping 
brows  and  lashes  were  like  the  first  shadow- 
ing of  an  eclipse  upon  a  white-faced  sky.  It 
was  a  face  both  repellent  and  fascinating, 
the  face  of  a  woman  who  either  had  had,  or 
would  have,  an  unique  history. 

She  turned  her  eyes,  with  their  cold,  frank 
gaze,  upon  Mark  several  times  during  the 
drive  to  the  house,  and  found  him  the  most 
satisfactory  man  she  had  seen ;  such  a  face 
and  head  could  only  belong  to  a  man  of  re- 
markable mental  endowment. 

She  did  not  attract  Mark.  He  found  her 
cold,  somewhat  washed-out,  thoroughly  un- 
sympathetic, and  he  addressed  most  of  his 
remarks  to  Mr.  Brewster,  who  had  been  in 
Boston  during  his  nephew's  visit,  awaiting 
the  return  of  his  daughter.  Mark  did  not 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  99 

find  him  more  interesting.  The  hobby  of 
that  amiable  gentleman's  life  was  gardening, 
and  he  rarely  accompanied  his  wife  to  her 
native  town. 

Mrs.  Brewster  and  her  daughter  greeted 
one  another  as  calmly  as  if  they  had  parted 
the  day  before,  and  Mark  saw  no  more  of 
his  cousin  until  supper.  When,  just  as  the 
bell  sounded,  he  went  out  to  the  verandah 
and  saw  her  clad  from  throat  to  foot  in  cac- 
tus-red gauze,  standing  like  a  tongue  of  flame 
against  the  gray  sky,  he  confessed  that  she 
was  washed-out  no  longer,  and  looked  the 
reverse  of  commonplace. 

During  supper  the  conversation  was  ex- 
clusively of  the  great  people  Elnora  had  met 
abroad  and  the  court  balls  she  had  attended. 
Mark  shut  up  like  an  oyster,  but  lacked  the 
bivalve's  ear-fitting  shell.  Gloom  sat  upon 
his  face,  and  once  more  he  floundered  ab- 
jectly in  a  shallow  lake  and  forgot  the  exist- 
ence of  the  ocean. 

Elnora  followed  him  to  the  verandah  after 
supper,  and  began  talking  at  once  about  art. 


100  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

She  had  done  the  galleries  and  studios  of 
Europe  with  exactness  and  discrimination, 
and  told  Mark  a  great  deal  that  he  was  eager 
to  -hear.  Then  she  spoke  of  poetry,  convey- 
ing much  flattery  with  subtle  art.  She 
began  to  interest  Mark.  With  the  keen  per- 
ception of  the  analyst  he  saw  exactly  how 
artificial  she  was  in  manner  and  sympathies. 
He  found  himself  comparing  every  note  of 
her  voice,  every  clever  manifestation  of  in- 
terest, every  evidence  of  artistic  tact  with 
the  divinely  natural  qualities  of  the  woman 
whose  personality  seemed  at  times  to  lie  in 
his  own.  Boradil  Trevor  rarely  talked  of 
herself.  Elnora,  more  rarely  still.  But  the 
former  forgot  her  individuality,  the  latter 
suppressed  hers.  Only  a  man  as  close  to 
nature  as  Mark  Saltonstall  could  feel  the 
difference. 

She  further  interested  him  because  there 
was  something  indefinably  mysterious  about 
her.  Little  as  he  knew  of  girls,  he  had  his 
desultory  ideals,  and  Boradil  with  her  forty- 
six  years  was  closer  to  them  than  Elnora 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  101 

Brewster.  He  startled  her  with  a  sudden 
question. 

"  Why  are  you  as  much  a  woman  of  the 
world  as  Aunt  Anne  ? "  he  demanded. 
"You  are  only  twenty-two." 

u  Think  of  the  experience  I  have  had  dur- 
ing the  last  four  years ;  ever  since  I  finished 
school  I  have  not  been  out  of  society  for  a 
month  at  a  time,  and  thanks  to  our  minis- 
ter's wife  and  one  or  two  great  people  who 
took  a  fancy  to  me,  I  have  had  a  brilliant 
and  unusual  experience." 

"  But  you  give  one  the  impression  that 
life  could  teach  you  nothing  more." 

Miss  Brewster  glanced  past  him  and  down 
the  dark  perspective  of  the  avenue. 

"  Your  imagination  will  weave  a  highly 
romantic  past  for  me  yet,  I  have  no  doubt, 
whereas  my  heart  would  need  a  sharp  knife 
to  pry  it  open.  I  take  naturally  to  the 
world.  My  nature  is  one  to  fashion  very 
rapidly  under  the  chisel  of  society,  and  be- 
ing a  fascinating  woman  I  have  had  the  ex- 
perience of  many  men.  That  is  all." 


102  A  QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

This  speech,  which  would  have  been  some- 
what conceited  between  the  lips  of  most 
women,  was  delivered  with  an  air  so  matter- 
of-fact  that  it  but  carried  conviction  of  its 
truth.  Elnora  had  long  ago  learned  that 
the  world  takes  its  children  at  their  own 
valuation,  and  this  fact  mastered,  she  had 
studied  the  art  of  presenting  the  valuation. 

As  the  hall  clock  struck  half-past  nine 
Mark  rose. 

"  I  am  going  to  prowl  about  the  country 
to-night,"  he  said.  "  I  often  do ;  and  proba- 
bly will  not  be  back  until  morning.  Tell 
my  aunt  not  to  sit  up  for  me  and  not  to  be 
alarmed." 

"  I  see  you  know  the  value  of  a  reputation 
for  eccentricity,"  said  his  cousin. 

"  That  is  a  good  idea,"  he  replied,  with  a 
laugh.  "  Good-night." 


XII. 

BEFORE  he  had  walked  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
he  had  forgotten  Elnora  Brewster ;  he  still 
felt  unpoised  and  longed  for  Boradil  Trev- 
or's unique  power  of  adjustment. 

She  was  walking  up  and  down  the  veran- 
dah, muffled  in  a  white  shawl,  her  full,  soft 
gown  of  violet  mull  floating  about  her.  She 
came  down  the  steps  as  he  appeared,  and 
they  went  toward  the  wood  together. 

"  You  are  sure  you  will  not  be  tired — stay- 
ing out  all  night  ? "  he  asked,  with  sudden 
compunction. 

"  Positive.  I  have  a  constitution  of  pure 
steel.  That  is  the  reason,"  with  a  little 
laugh,  uwhy  I  look  so  young  for  an  old 


woman." 


They  were  on  the  edge  of  a  brook,  swollen 
and  rocky.     Mark  put  his  hands  about  her 


104  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

waist  and  swung  her  across  as  if  she  were  a 
child  of  ten. 

"  What  is  your  age  to  my  strength  ? "  he 
said.  "The  balance  is  in  my  favor." 

"  You  could  do  as  much  for  your  grand- 
mother if  she  were  a  slender  woman,"  said 
Boradil,  dryly. 

"  My  grandmother  had  she  lived  would,  I 
am  convinced,  have  been  a  large  and  portly 
dame  like  Aunt  Anne  Brewster.  She  would 
have  been  too  much  for  even  my  muscle,  and 
I  should  have  regarded  her  with  correspond- 


ing awe." 


They  reached  the  wood,  and  Boradil  asked 
him  if  he  had  put  any  more  work  on  his 
poem. 

"  Not  yet.  I  shall  wait  a  week  or  two  and 
then  go  at  it  again  in  your  delightful  old 
library,  if  you  will  let  me.  I  simply  could 
not  write  a  line  in  my  aunt's  house." 

"  When  will  you  publish  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  God  knows,"  he  said,  impatiently. 
"  The  moment  I  conceive  an  idea  I  am  mad 
to  put  it  on  the  world  and  hear  people  talk- 


A  QUESTION  OF  TIME.  105 

ing  of  it.  It  is  the  wisdom  of  the  house-fly 
which  asserts  that  all  high  genius  is  above 
ambition.  Recognition  and  approbation  are 
the  very  breath  of  life  to  it — except  in  iso- 
lated cases.  I  want  to  be  acknowledged  not 
only  a  master  but  the  master,  and  yet  I 
know  that  I  must  wait  years  ;  that  no  matter 
what  my  gifts,  only  years  of  hard  work  will 
perfect  me  as  an  artist — without  which  raw 
talent  is  worth  nothing.  One  day  I  suppose 
life  will  seem  short.  Now  it  seems  terribly 
long.  I  want  to  leap  over  the  next  ten  years 
and  hear  myself  called  the  greatest  poet  of 
modern  times.  Do  you  think  that  I  am  a 
dreamer,  mad  with  my  own  vanity  ?  "  he  de- 
manded, savagely ;  "  but  that  is  what  I  want, 
nothing  less  !  I  hate  mediocrity  as  I  hate 
commonplace  people.  If  I  did  not  think 
I  could  one  day  stand  alone  on  the  high- 
est pinnacle,  I  would  row  out  on  the  Sound 
some  stormy  night  and  turn  my  boat  upside 
down." 

"  And  when  you  are  great — will  you  be 
content? — when  you  have  nothing  more  to 


106  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

strive  for?  When  you  have  distanced  your 
rivals  and  silenced  dispute,  will  not  half  the 
flavor  be  gone  ?  " 

"  No  ;  for  then  I  shall  try  to  be  as  great 
as  those  who  are  dead.  There  is  no  limit  for 
ambition.  Oh,  if  you  knew  what  a  blessed 
relief  it  is  to  say  all  this  to  you  !  I  have 
never  revealed  one-tenth  as  much  even  to  my 
father.  Most  people  do  not  suspect  my  am- 
bition ;  they  think  the  delight  of  creating 
occupies  me  alone.  But  I  am  willing  to  lay 
bare  my  very  soul  to  you.  You  not  only 
understand — you  have  the  power  of  flashing 
before  me  rny  dreams  materialized." 

A  few  moments  later  he  burst  out  sudden- 
ly:  "A  dreadful  thought  comes  to  me  at 
times.  I  have  genius,  but  it  is  on  the  old 
lines.  That  is  to  say,  that  in  spite  of  my  in- 
dividuality and  even  originality,  I  am  but  a 
poet  as  many  others  have  been.  Suppose 
that  posterity  decides  that  the  poets  who 
have  gone  before  my  generation  are  sufficient 
for  literature,  that  it  is  weary  of  repetition. 
Suppose,  maddening  thought !  that  the  man 


A  QUESTION  OF  TIME.  107 

of  my  generation  who  will  stand  to  posterity 
as  the  great  and  representative  man  of  this 
age,  will  discover  a  new  form  of  expression — 
a  form  that  is  neither  poetry,  novel,  romance, 
history,  biography,  essay.  And  that  has  not 
fallen  to  my  lot " 

"Hush,"  said  Boradil,  "Why  do  you 
torment  yourself  ?  And  why  should  you  not 
be  the  man  ?  You  are  but  twenty-two,  and 
many  men  of  genius  have  stumbled  for  years 
before  finding  the  mine  which  made  them 
discoverers.  Wait  until  you  are  fifty  before 
you  begin  to  concern  yourself  with  posterity 
or  unborn  rivals." 

"  Yes,  you  are  right,"  he  said,  gratefully. 
"  You  always  are." 

They  strolled  up  and  down  the  dim  wood, 
hearing  the  town-clock  clang  the  hours,  and 
talking  of  many  things.  Mark,  like  all 
imaginative  minds,  embodied  the  people  of 
history  who  had  interested  him,  and  he  dis- 
cussed them  as  eagerly  with  Boradil  as  his 
aunt  and  cousin  discussed  the  midgets  of 
their  little  world.  They  rambled  through 


108  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

old  Egypt  and  sat  on  the  thrones  of  the 
Pharaohs ;  the  stern  barbaric  beauty  of  the 
time  hid  the  woodland.  They  danced  at 
Versailles  in  ruffles  and  patches,  and  supped 
with  the  young  Bonapartes  in  their  Corsican 
home.  Mark  with  his  glittering  power  per- 
sonified all,  and  Boradil  thrilled  with  a  sense 
of  having  put  her  foot  on  the  magnetic  pole 
of  a  new  world. 

They  turned  into  a  little  clearing  and 
Boradil,  leaning  against  a  tree,  looked  up  at 
Mark  as  he  stood  with  the  moon  shining  on 
his  face.  The  white  glare  made  him  look 
more  like  a  creature  of  antique  granite  than 
ever — hewn  with  a  lost  art.  But  the  grand 
calm  curves  of  his  mouth  were  pulsing  with 
the  red  torrents  of  youth,  and  under  his  lids 
the  un measurable  darkness  of  his  eyes  seemed 
crossed  with  flame,  as  when  a  torch  flares 
suddenly  in  the  gloom  of  a  cave. 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  the  gray-blue  sky, 
thick  with  marching  gold.  Her  pure  profile 
lay  like  carven  pearl  against  the  dark  leaves, 
and  the  beautiful  line  of  her  throat  rose 


A  QUESTION  OF  TIME.  109 

high  above  the  fleecy  shawl.  Mark  gazed  at 
her  enraptured — at  first  as  he  would  stand 
breathless  before  an  exquisite  work  of  art. 
Then  as  he  looked  his  artistic  sense  with- 
drew and  he  made  a  sudden  overwhelming 
discovery.  He  realized  that  he  was  a  man. 

For  a  moment  more  he  gazed  in  silence, 
his  muscles  rigid,  his  nostrils  expanded,  his 
eyelids  flung  upward  as  if  scorched  by  the 
fires  beneath,  his  breath  coming  in  short 
gasps.  So  may  the  first  man  have  looked 
when  he  beheld  woman.  An  extraordinary 
languor  seized  him  and  he  trembled  violently, 
then  that  left  him  and  he  stamped  his  foot 
on  the  ground  with  a  loud  cry.  It  was  the 
cry  of  a  savage  who  feels  the  boundless  free- 
dom of  an  unpeopled  world,  realizes  that  it 
is  his,  that  he  is  king,  omnipotent.  At  that 
moment  he  was  the  living,  quivering  incarna- 
tion of  elemental  man,  the  personification  of 
the  world's  youth  and  vital  riches,  a  creator. 

The  woman  turned  quickly  at  the  cry  and 
looked  for  a  moment  into  his  blazing  imperi- 
ous eyes.  Then  she  too  gave  a  cry.  She 


110  A  QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and  cowered 
against  the  tree. 

He  approached  hesitatingly,  yet  with  eager 
step.  She  had  suddenly  become  the  repre- 
sentative of  a  new  idea,  almost  another  being. 
He  hardly  knew  what  he  wished.  He  drew  to 
her  as  to  a  magnet,  yet  with  rapturous  fear. 

She  threw  out  her  hands,  motioning  him 
back,  and  they  touched  his.  He  clutched 
them  fast,  and  the  veil  was  rent  that  hid 
from  him  the  great  mystery  of  sex.  He 
flung  them  from  him  and  caught  the  woman 
in  his  embrace.  He  had  no  purpose  nor 
desire  beyond  the  moment ;  he  was  but  a 
creature  actuated  by  primeval  instinct.  Bo- 
radil  lay  passive  in  his  arms.  In  her  wide 
eyes  was  an  expression  of  horror  fighting 
with  rapture ;  the  knowledge  of  age  and  the 
knowledge  of  youth. 

Then  the  first  book  of  his  life  closed  ;  he 
bent  his  head  and  kissed  the  woman. 

His  arms  relaxed  suddenly,  and  Boradil 
slipped  from  his  embrace  and  ran  through  the 
wood.  He  made  no  attempt  to  follow  her. 


XIII. 

BOEADIL  sped  down  the  bill  to  her  home, 
keeping  the  road  by  instinct  only,  letting 
herself  in  mechanically  at  the  side  door, 
never  pausing  until  locked  in  her  room. 
Then  she  dropped  upon  a  chair  and  pressed 
her  hands  to  her  face  until  the  blood  threat- 
ened to  start  from  the  nails. 

Oh,  mysterious  heart  of  woman,  locked 
and  tepid  for  nearly  two-score  years  and  ten 
of  woman's  allotted  time  !  What  an  awak- 
ening !  What  a  travesty  on  the  sentimental 
ardors  of  youth  !  What  mockery  in  that 
narrowing  end  of  the  future's  perspective ! 
What  a  tragedy  of  youthful  passion  and  ret 
lentless  array  of  years  !  Age  brings  with  it 
the  more  dignified  affections  of  nature,  oh, 
Boraclil  Trevor  !  The  wider  range  of  inter- 
ests, the  calm  and  peace  of  the  long  shadows 
on  the  hill-side.  You  are  forty-six  !  forty- 


112  A  QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

six!  forty-six!  Boradil  Trevor;  the  age  of 
many  a  grandmother  ;  yet  here  you  are  thrill- 
ing and  quivering  under  the  kiss  of  a  boy, 
passionate  as  a  girl  in  her  first  awakening. 
What  have  you  to  do  with  passion,  O  Bo- 
radil Trevor!  Go  to  the  daily  drivel  of 
your  household  needs  and  social  obligations. 
Squeeze  your  heart  into  a  tumbler  and  cast  it 
upon  the  great  river  of  life,  where  it  belongs. 
What  right  have  you  to  happiness,  since  the 
world,  that  omnipotent,  infallible  monarch, 
before  whom  even  God  hides  his  face  abashed, 
has  decreed  tha.t  a  woman  of  two-score  years 
and  ten  shall  eat  of  autumn  leaves  and  turn 
from  the  scent  of  violets  ?  True,  God  made 
you  as  you  are.  If  you  are  shaken  with  pas- 
sion at  the  dignified  age  of  forty-six ;  if  your 
heart  is  great  with  one  grand  unselfish  single- 
purposed  love  ;  if  you  are  possessed  of  every 
qualification  for  happiness,  yielding  and  re- 
ceiving; if  your  nature  is  but  the  richer, 
fuller,  stronger  for  its  unconscious  sleep — 
why,  what  of  that  ?  The  World,  O  Bora- 
dil Trevor !  says  thou  shalt  not  transgress  its 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  113 

holy  commandments  and  mate  your  forty-six 
perfect,  beautiful  years  with  twenty -two 
groping  revolutions  of  life's  wheel  —  and 
complete  the  man.  Why  weep  ?  Why  beat 
your  pretty  little  white  hands  against  the 
bronze  grinning  mask  of  Fate  ?  Surely  you 
had  your  day — your  youth.  True,  love  did 
not  come  then.  He  played  you  a  shabby 
trick,  skulked  in  waiting  for  the  serious  dig- 
nity of  your  two-score  years  and  ten.  But 
what  of  that  ?  A  mere  accident.  One  cares 
nothing  for  reasons  in  this  world,  O  Bo- 
radii  Trevor !  Results  alone  concern  us. 
There  is  no  excuse  for  failure.  You  lost 
your  youth  without  knowing  its  joys :  that 
is  the  beginning  and  the  end.  You  have  no 
right  to  shame  your  sex  and  take  them  now. 

Boradil's  white  rigid  fingers  curved  up- 
ward, spreading  apart.  She  looked  through 
them  as  through  the  bars  of  a  cage.  Only 
the  moon  lit  the  room,  but  it  shone  athwart 
her  haggard  horrified  eyes. 

Every  exquisite  tumult  of  first  love,  every 
imperious  desire  for  surrender,  every  su- 


114:  A  QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

preme  longing  for  mate  and  union  she  had 
felt  to-night  for  the  first  time  in  her  forty- 
six  years.  And  felt  them  for  a  boy  who 
might  have  been  the  youngest  of  many  chil- 
dren. She  gave  a  hoarse,  angry  cry.  The 
sweet  nature  of  the  woman  was  gall  and 
wormwood,  bitter,  rebellious,  against  the 
outrageous  trick  that  fate  had  played  her. 
For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  felt  that 
she  had  been  cheated  and  defrauded ;  she 
felt  the  shameful  waste  of  her  best  and  rich- 
est years.  Above  all,  alas  !  alas  !  she  felt 
the  weight  of  time,  the  meagreness  of  the 
future.  But  if  that  blank  past  had  to  be, 
and  this  strange  intoxicating  love-rose  had 
to  blow  in  the  gray  level  of  her  years,  why 
could  not  a  man  of  her  own  age  have 
stooped  and  plucked  it  with  her  ?  Why 
could  not  she  have  loved  Mr.  Irving  ?  That 
would  be  a  calm  and  decorous  union,  and 
the  world  would  have  pattered  its  approval. 
Her  eyes  grew  as  rigid  as  the  white  bars 
they  stared  through.  What  use  to  ring  the 
changes  on  the  eternal  unanswering  Why  ? 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  115 

She  loved  Mark  Saltonstall,  and  that  was 
the  question  to  face.  In  spite  of  the  passion 
that  had  struck  her  own  into  life,  she  did  not 
believe  that  he  really  loved  her.  No  dan- 
ger that  he  would  wish  to  marry  her  !  The 
inthralment  of  the  hour  had  given  him  that 
sudden  knowledge  of  his  manhood  which  is 
an  episode  in  the  lives  of  all  men.  She  was 
the  one  woman  near — that  was  all. 

Her  mouth  had  lost  its  pink.  The  lips 
curled  inward  against  the  set  teeth,  She 
was  not  a  beautiful  woman  in  that  hour. 
In  her  breast  tolled  forty-six  knells,  slowly, 
loudly,  with  long  vibration.  Then  again — 
and  again.  She  wanted  to  scream,  to  shriek, 
to  curse.  But  the  tragedy  was  too  deep  for 
vocal  expression.  She  sat  stiff  and  speech- 
less, feeling  as  if  each  passing  moment  were 
another  year,  adding  fresh  silver  to  her  hair, 
etching  lines,  revolving  her  nearer  the  end, 
already  so  close. 

She  was  an  old  woman — old  woman — old 
woman.  An  owl  hooting  by  the  window 
seemed  to  intone  the  words  of  her  soul's 


116  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

monody.  And  she  loved  a  man  of  twenty- 
two.  Oh !  the  hideous  irony  of  it.  How 
she  would  have  ridiculed  another  woman 
discovered  guilty  of  such  a  folly.  In  spite 
of  the  intense  sympathy  of  her  nature,  this 
was  a  phase  of  human  weakness  for  which 
she  could  have  had  only  impatience  and  con- 
tempt. Now  and  again  she  doubted  it  of 
herself.  To-morrow's  sun  must  surely  mock 
at  the  vapors  of  the  night.  Then  she  shud- 
dered. She  knew  that  she  had  loved  Mark 
Saltonstall  the  night  she  had  met  him.  On- 
ly its  preposterousness  had  kept  the  knowl- 
edge from  her  until  to-night. 

Her  hands  suddenly  dropped  to  her  chest, 
showing  the  livid  imprints  they  had  made 
on  her  face.  For  a  moment  she  clutched  at 
her  gown,  striving  to  tear  it  apart,  then  fell 
gropingly  to  the  floor. 


XIV. 

AT  three  the  next  clay  the  maid  brought 
up  word  that  Mark  Saltonstall  was  below. 
Boradil,  who  was  lying  on  a  lounge  in  her 
darkened  room,  told  the  girl  so  crossly  to 
excuse  her  that  the  devoted  servant  stared 
in  amazement  Boradil's  nerves  were  taut. 
Even  her  inactive  felinity  had  reared  its 
graceful  head  and  longed  to  scratch  some- 
one with  its  sharp  thoroughbred  claws.  She 
scarcely  recognized  herself.  Truly,  her  pla- 
cid existence  had  given  her  but  an  occasion- 
al hint  of  the  heights  and  depths  of  her 
woman's  nature. 

The  maid  went  down-stairs  and  returned 
with  a  note. 

"  I  must  see  you,"  it  said.  "  I  shall  wait 
until  you  are  better  if  it  is  not  until  to-mor- 
row." Boradil  hesitated  a  few  minutes,  then 
told  the  maid  to  say  she  would  go  down  pres- 


118  A  QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

ently.  When  she  was  alone  she  threw  apart 
the  blinds  and  stood  before  the  mirror.  She 
looked  haggard,  but  her  hair  was  still  brown 
and  no  wrinkles  had  come  in  the  night. 
Her  mouth,  however,  had  a  hard  look,  un- 
usual to  it,  and  bitterness  was  in  her  eyes. 
After  some  deliberation,  vanity  triumphed 
over  the  indifference  born  of  disgust,  and  she 
covered  the  severe  front  of  her  black  gown 
with  a  kerchief  of  white  mull  and  lace,  and 
twisted  her  hair  into  a  softer  knot,  fluffing 
it  about  her  face.  She  was  almost  herself 
again.  Her  toilet  completed,  she  stood  mo- 
tionless for  a  few  moments,  her  hands  locked 
together,  her  face  stinging  with  a  sudden 
rush  of  blood.  She  turned  sharply  from  the 
ordeal  of  meeting  this  man,  this  boy  who 
must  look  upon  her  with  wondering  contempt 
— and  who  had  doubtless  come  to  apologize ! 
Then  an  idea  came  to  her  aid.  He  must 
know,  that  is,  if  he  had  any  coherent  remem- 
brance of  those  moments,  that  she  had  been 
helpless  in  his  arms,  that  if  she  had  made 
any  attempt  to  free  herself,  he  in  his  greater 


A  QUESTION  OF  TIME.  119 

strength  would  not  have  noticed  it.  Still, 
the  position  had  been  a  ridiculous  one,  and 
she  twisted  her  hands  in  futile  disgust ;  then 
summoned  her  pride  and  went  below. 

Mark  was  standing  at  the  window  with 
his  arms  folded.  He  was  as  white  as  a  dark 
man  can  be,  and  his  lids  almost  covered  his 
eyes.  In  some  inscrutable  way  he  looked 
older.  The  semblance  of  boyishness,  at  least, 
had  left  him  for  the  time. 

Boradil  greeted  him  with  a  cold  dignity 
as  unlike  her  usual  manner  as  snow  to  the 
flower  it  crushes,  and  he  flushed  darkly,  his 
lids  lifting  a  little.  It  was  a  horribly  awk- 
ward moment  —  a  moment  in  which  both 
would  gladly  have  seen  the  world  flash  back 
to  its  original  vapor. 

She  sat  down  in  a  high-backed  chair,  and 
crossed  her  hands  on  her  lap.  She  noticed 
vaguely  that  they  looked  very  white  on  the 
black  gown.  Mark  shook  suddenly  from 
head  to  foot,  as  if  his  will  were  knouting 
his  nerves  into  subjection,  then  wheeled  a 
chair  directly  in  front  of  her  and  sat  down. 


120  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

"  You  are  angry  with  me,"  he  said,  rapidly. 
"  You  look  upon  me  as  a  ridiculous  fool  of  a 
boy  who  lost  his  head,  and  dared — presumed 
to  touch  you.  Tell  me — tell  me,  is  that 
what  you  think  ?  " 

Boradil  looked  hard  at  her  hands.  "  I 
think  it  was  unfortunate,"  she  said,  coldly. 
"  Our  friendship  was  a  very  pleasant  one. 
It  was  a  pity  to  end  it." 

"Don't  say  that  it  is  ended,"  he  cried, 
sharply.  "  Don't  say  that  ! ''  He  covered 
her  hands  suddenly  with  his  and  thrust  his 
face  beneath  her  own. 

"  Do  you  not  love  me  at  all  ?  "  he  whis- 
pered, hoarsely.  "That — that — that  could 
not  be." 

"  Hush  !  "  she  said,  trying  to  draw  away 
her  hands  from  him.  "  What  are  you  talk- 
ing about  ?  " 

"  Boradil !  "  he  cried,  loudly.  He  swept 
his  two  hands  about  her  face  and  forced  her 
head  back  against  the  chair,  looking  into 
her  eyes  with  terrified  entreaty.  "  Bora- 
dil ! "  he  cried,  "  you  do  love  me.  I  felt  it 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIMS.  121 

last  night.  Mad  as  I  was,  I  felt  that.  But 
say  it.  Say  it ! '' 

She  let  her  face  sink  down  into  his  hands, 
turning  it  slowly  from  side  to  side  as  if  grate- 
ful for  their  warmth. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  she  whispered. 
"  It  is  not  possible  that  you  love  me." 

"  Not  possible  ?  What  do  you  mean  ? 
Why,  I  idolize  you  !  I  love  you  and  love  in 
one.  Do  you  know  what  that  means  ?  Do 
you  think  every  man  feels  that  if  he  lives 
three  lifetimes  ?  Look  at  me." 

She  raised  her  head.  Her  eyes  seemed 
swimming  in  their  melted  crystal.  Her 
mouth  was  pink  again,  and  parted.  But 
only  for  a  moment.  She  sprang  suddenly 
to  her  feet,  thrusting  Mark  from  her.  She 
tore  the  soft  mull  and  lace  from  her  neck, 
and  flung  it  to  the  floor.  She  thrust  her 
hands  into  her  hair,  parting  it  at  the  brow, 
and  dragging  it  in  hard  strands  down  each 
side  of  her  face.  In  that  moment  she 
touched  the  supremest  pinnacle  of  woman's 
bitterness  and  despair. 


122  A  QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

"  Look  at  me  !  "  she  screamed.  "  Look  at 
me  and  see  me  for  what  I  am — an  old  wom- 
an !  A  woman  who  might  have  been  the 
mother  of  a  family  before  you  were  born. 
A  woman  nearly  half  a  century  old.  God  ! 
do  you  understand  now  how  old  I  am  ? 
And  you  love  me,  me,  you  a  boy  hardly  out 
of  your  teens,  who  will  have  barely  begun  to 
live  when  I  am  tottering  about  with  a  cane, 
trying  to  make  people  understand  my  tooth- 
less words  !  Lord  !  Lord  !  the  irony  of  it ! 
the  horror  !  the  cruelty  !  And  I  have  been 
happy  in  being  alive !  Happy !  Why,  I 
would  not  have  lived  a  moment  without 
cursing  my  birth  if  I  could  have  foreseen 
the  end.  I  tell  you  there  is  no  tragedy  of 
youth  which  can  touch  the  horror  of  what  I 
feel  to-day."  She  turned  upon  him  with 
blazing  eyes,  still  holding  the  hair  stiff  and 
straight  about  her  face.  "Go!"  she  cried. 
"  Go  to  some  girl  who  can  give  you  youth 
for  youth.  Go  to  some  woman  who  is  be- 
ginning life,  not  ending  it.  Go  !  Go  !  Go  ! 
and  forget  your  grandmother." 


A  QUESTION  OF  TIME.  123 

Mark  had  watched  her  with  a  sort  of  rap- 
ture ;  passion  was  pushed  aside  for  the  mo- 
ment by  a  new  link  in  the  evolution  of  his 
manhood.  He  saw  a  woman  who  loved 
him,  but  he  saw  also  a  terrible  suffering  and 
despair,  and  pity  and  a  great  desire  to  com- 
fort and  protect  awoke  within  him. 

He  went  to  her  and  took  both  hands  in 
one  of  his ;  with  the  other  he  pushed  her 
hair  back  to  its  waves  and  curls.  Then  he 
picked  up  the  mull  and  put  it  awkwardly 
about  her.  She  made  no  resistance;  vital- 
ity seemed  suddenly  to  have  left  her.  He 
put  both  arms  about  her  and  drew  her  down 
upon  a  sofa. 

"  Listen  to  me,"  he  said.  "  Love  has  noth- 
ing to  do  with  years.  It  is  an  instinct,  not 
a  thing  of  law  and  line.  If  you  happened 
to  be  born  first,  that  was  an  accident.  Noth- 
ing can  alter  the  fact  that  you  are  the  only 
woman  in  this  world  for  me.  Our  natures 
fit  and  we  make  a  complete  whole.  We  will 
never  be  able  to  remember  where  the  one  be- 
gins and  the  other  ends.  You  have  eternal 


124  A  QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

youth  in  your  heart ;  I  was  born  at  a  mo- 
ment when  the  divine  rays  of  the  ages  were 
at  focus,  and  they  pierced  my  brain.  You 
will  never  be  old ;  I  will  never  be  young. 
You  have  never  lived ;  I  can  never  live  ex- 
cept as  part  of  you." 

Boradil  listened,  half  incredulously,  but 
feeling  the  force  of  his  deliberated  words. 
When  he  had  finished  she  put  her  head  be- 
tween her  hands  and  burst  into  tears.  With 
the  tears  passed  the  bitterness,  and  the 
sweetness  of  her  nature  resumed  its  sway. 

Mark,  with  his  sensitive  nature,  felt  the 
meaning  of  those  tears,  and  he  held  her 
close  with  a  man's  strong  sympathy.  In 
that  moment  he  was  older  than  she. 

She  dried  her  eyes  after  a  time,  and  draw- 
ing down  his  face,  kissed  him  gently,  then 
withdrew  from  his  arms. 

"  I  am  willing  to  grant  all  that  you  say," 
she  said,  "  and  I  shall  love  you  always  and 
with  thankfulness  that  I  have  felt  love  at 
last.  But  you  must  leave  me,  and  at  once. 
There  is  no  other " 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  125 

"  We  will  be  married  at  once,"  he  said. 

"  It  is  for  me  to  decide  that,  and  it  can 
never  be.  You  will  rebel  now,  but  one  day 
you  will  understand.  It  would  be  well 
enough  for  a  few  years — then  you  would 
hate  me  for  having  taken  advantage  of  a 
boyish  infatuation.  Such  a  marriage  would 
be  preposterous.  I  should  be  little  better 
than  criminal  to  permit  it.  Think,  Mark — 
when  you  are  thirty,  I  will  be  sixty.  When 
you  are  forty,  I  will  be  seventy— 

"  I  can  do  my  own  arithmetic,  thank  you. 
When  you  are  seventy  you  will  be  no  older 
than  you  are  now.  A  woman  like  you  re- 
mains young  forever.  Go  to  history  and 
find  out.  As  for  the  rest,  I  answered  all 
your  arguments  a  few  moments  ago.  Do 
you  want  me  to  say  it  all  over  again  ? " 

"  Mark,  you  must  listen  to  reason " 

"  I  listen  most  attentively  to  the  voice  of 
reason.  Otherwise  I  should  go  and  be  mis- 
erable because  it  does  not  happen  to  be  the 
custom  for  men  to  marry  women  older 
than  themselves.  My  God !  because  the 


126  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

world  wags  one  way,  does  it  follow  in  logi- 
cal sequence  that  that  is  the  right  way  ? 
Has  it  not  admitted  again  and  again  that  it 
was  all  wrong  and  faced  to  the  right  about  ? 
Once  a  woman  would  have  been  stoned  from 
the  stage.  Now,  when  an  actor  wishes  to 
make  himself  particularly  ridiculous  he 
dresses  up  in  woman's  clothes.  Once  di- 
vorce was  criminal.  To-day  it  is  fashiona- 
ble. Once  the  Catholic  was  burned  at  the 
stake.  Then  the  Catholic  broiled  the  Prot- 
estant. Then  the  Protestant  wanted  to  lay 
Science  in  ashes,  and  now  Science  has  the 
Protestant  on  a  gridiron.  You  and  I  are 
ahead  of  our  times,  that  is  all.  The  day 
will  come  when  a  man  and  woman  will 
marry  because  their  natures  meet  like  the 
arcs  of  a  circle  and  fit,  and  for  no  other  rea- 
son whatever.  Years  will  not  be  taken  into 
account.  Surely  you  can  rise  above  this 
poor  little  world,  which  stumbles  blindly  in- 
to its  conventions  and  gets  out  of  them  at 
the  first  decent  opportunity." 

"  And  suppose  I  listened  to  you  and  ac- 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  127 

knowledged  that  you  were  right?  Have 
you  thought  of  the  other  consequences — the 
storms  of  ridicule,  the  fury  of  opposition  ? 
Our  names  would  be  town  talk.  Every 
woman  I  know  would  cut  me.  Every  man 
you  met  would  take  care  that  you  knew  he 
thought  you  a  reckless,  ridiculous  boy.  Do 
you  think  you  could  stand  that  test  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  I  have  thought  of  all 
that.  I  have  money  of  my  own  and  we  will 
go  abroad  at  once.  I  cannot  say  what  my 
father  will  think  of  it,  but  I  believe  and  hope 
that  he  will  consent.  If  he  does  not  I  shall 
be  sorry,  but  it  will  make  no  difference.  So 
there  is  no  question  of  my  courage.  Have 
you  enough  ?  That  is  the  question.'' 

"  I  can  stand  that,"  she  said.  "It  is  only 
you  I  fear — ten  years  from  now." 

"  I  absolutely  refuse  to  argue  that  question 
any  further.  Will  you  marry  me  ?  " 

"  Let  me  think,"  she  said.    "  Let  me  think." 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  the 
struggle,  although  brief,  was  sharp.  Temp- 
tation never  comes  to  the  young  with  such 


128  A  QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

* 

force  as  to  the  woman  whose  most  precious 
years  are  behind  her.  Youth  has  an  endless 
vista  of  change  and  promise  and  mystery  ;  it 
is  easy  to  resist,  picturesque  to  suffer.  But 
when  the  terrible  realization  of  life's  brevity 
has  awakened,  when  but  a  few  pictures  re- 
main to  drift  across  this  mortal  diorama, 
when  the  past  is  tasteless  and  the  last  short 
opportunity  has  come — ah  !  does  the  woman 
live  so  wise,  so  foolish,  so  strong,  so  weak,  so 
mad,  so  passion] ess,  as  to  press  the  fruit  to 
her  nostrils  and  throw  it  down  untasted  ? 

At  least  she  could  make  him  happy  for 
some  years.  A  younger  woman  might  make 
him  miserable  in  less.  When  the  time  came 
wherein  he  looked  at  her  with  aversion,  she 
could  go  and  leave  him  to  his  own  full  life. 
She  would  have  but  few  years  left  for  suffer- 
ing, and  meanwhile  she  would  know  a  happi- 
ness which  she  would  willingly  compress  in- 
to a  single  year  and  know  the  bitterness  of 
death  for  fifty.  And  passion,  long  unfelt,  is 
a  tremendous  factor  in  deciding  such  ques- 
tions as  these. 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  129 

•9 

She  raised  her  head,  leaning  it  back.  Her 
eyes  looked  like  blue  ether  flecked  with 
stars. 

"  Yes/'  she  said,  "  I  will  marry  you." 


XV. 

THAT  evening  after  supper  Mark  was  sit- 
ting with  his  aunt  and  cousin  on  the  ver- 
andah. Elnora  had  been  talking  in  her  cold 
brilliant  fashion,  but  came  after  a  time  to  a 
pause.  Mark  took  advantage  of  it  and  de- 
liberately announced  his  engagement. 

The  silence  of  the  ensuing  moment  rivalled 
that  of  his  favorite  four  in  the  morning. 
The  light  from  the  hall  shone  on  his  aunt's 
face  and  he  saw  it  grow  livid.  Her  cold 
gray  eyes  seemed  to  vent  white  flames  as  she 
clutched  an  arm  of  her  chair  with  either 
hand  and  bent  herself  slowly  forward. 

"  What  did  you  say  ?  "  she  demanded,  in  a 
harsh,  cracked  voice.  "  What — did — you — 
say?" 

"I  am  going  to  marry  Boradil  Trevor," 
he  replied,  calmly,  although  his  nerves  felt 
like  a  net-work  of  electric  wires. 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  131 

Mrs.  Brewster's  straight  mouth  curved 
downward  with  an  expression  of  disgust  and 
contempt  which  made  her  nephew  shudder. 

"  Perhaps,"  she  said,  with  cutting  empha- 
sis, "  perhaps  it  would  be  more  becoming  in 
a  boy' of  your  age  to  speak  of  Mrs.  Trevor 
with  more  respect.  She  is  just  about  my 
age,  and  is  several  years  older  than  your 
mother  would  have  been  had  she  lived." 

"  I  expect  that  sort  of  thing,  of  course," 
he  said,  but  he  would  have  given  a  great 
deal  at  that  moment  to  go  behind  the  house 
and  knock  a  man  down.  "A  philosopher, 
however,  has  said  that  a  woman  is  as  old  as 
she  looks,  and  Mrs.  Trevor  might  pass  for 
my  younger  sister." 

It  was  Mrs.  Brewster's  turn  to  flush  with 
anger.  She  hated  many  women,  but  none  so 
cordially  as  Boradil  Trevor.  She  resented 
her  beauty,  her  popularity  in  Danforth,  her 
charm  for  men,  above  all  her  perennial 
youth.  Every  human  being  selects  one  other 
for  a  rival,  with  or  without  reason,  and  Mrs. 
Brewster  could  not  recall  the  time  when  the 


132  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

mention  of  Boradil  Trevor's  name  or  the 
sight  of  her  lovely  face  had  not  kindled 
within  her  a  dull  jealous  fire. 

"  If  it  is  true  that  you  contemplate  such 
an  act  of — of — adolescent  idiocy,"  she  re- 
plied, savagely,  "  she  will  probably  have  the 
pleasure  of  hearing  strangers  allude  to  you 
as  her  son.  But  if  she  has  actually  con- 
sented to  link  her  old  life  with  your  feather- 
headed  youth,  she  is  an  unprincipled  woman, 
a  bad  woman,  and  deserves  legal  treatment." 

Mark  rose.  "  That  will  do,"  he  said,  furi- 
ously ;  "  you  will  oblige  me  by  never  men- 
tioning her  name  to  me  again.  And  if  you 
will  excuse  me,  I  will  leave  your  house  to- 
night." 

Mrs.  Brewster,  trembling,  sprang  to  her 
feet,  nearly  overturning  her  chair.  It  was 
rarely  that  passion  mastered  her  cold  repose, 
but  when  it  did  the  devil  that  dwells  in  all 
of  us  made  her  little  better  than  a  fish-wife. 

"  You  dare  to  tell  me  that  this  thing  is 
true,"  she  screamed,  barring  his  way.  "  You 
dare  to  tell  nie  that  you  will  disgrace  your 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  133 

family  and  hold,  us  all  up  to  shame  and  ridi- 
cule ?  I  will  have  your  father  put  you  in  a 
mad-house.  Do  you  think  I  will  submit  to 
be  the  laughing-stock  of  Boston?  What 
man  will  marry  Elnora  ?  They  will  all  be 
afraid  that  she  is  as  big  a  fool  as  you  are. 
You  shall  not,  I  say.  You  shall  not !  " 

"  I  shall  not  dispute  the  matter  further 
with  you.  My  father  is  the  only  one  to 
whom  I  am  answerable,  and  we  can  settle 
this  between  ourselves." 

"  But  I  tell  you  that  you  shall  think  of 
me,'7  cried  the  enraged  woman,  "  you  ridicu- 
lous little  fool !  "  She  could  not  spring,  but 
she  hurled  herself  suddenly  upon  him  and 
caught  him  by  the  shoulder.  When  she 
found  that  she  could  not  shake  him,  she  gave 
a  hoarse  choking  cry  and  slapped  him  vio- 
lently on  the  face. 

Mark  took  her  hand,  and  holding  it  at 
arm's  length,  dropped  it  gingerly. 

"  You  have  done  honor  to  the  blood  of  the 
Saltonstalls,"  he  said,  with  a  coolness  born 
of  her  abandonment.  "  And  it  is  interesting 


134  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

to  learn  that  the  vulgarian  is  in  us  all,  and 
that  we  have  only  progressed  a  step  beyond 
barbarism  in  our  centuries.  But  "  -  with  a 
cutting  emphasis  equal  to  her  best — "  you 
make  a  favored  few  seem  more  charming, 
more  refined,  more  exquisitely  feminine  by 
contrast." 

He  put  her  aside,  and  entering  the  house, 
went  quickly  down  the  hall ;  but  before  he 
reached  the  stair  a  hand  slipped  through 
his  arm. 

"  Mark,"  said  Elnora,  softly,  "  I  want  to 
speak  to  you.  Will  you  come  to  my  room  a 
moment  ? " 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  shortly,  "  I  will  go  if  you 
wish  it.  But  do  not  say  too  much ;  I  have 
had  enough  for  the  present." 

"I  will  not  scold  you.  But  there  are 
some  things  I  wish  greatly  to  say.  I  feel 
that  it  is  my  duty  to  say  them,  Mark,  for 
they  may  prevent  your  hearing  much 
worse." 

"  All  right.     Fire  away." 

She  opened  the  door  of  her  room  at  the 


A  QUESTION  OF  TIME.  135 

head  of  the  stair.  It  was  a  long  apartment 
with  two  windows  facing  the  south.  She 
lit  one  of  the  lamps  and  drifted  to  and  fro 
for  a  moment,  her  gray  gauze  gown  and  twi- 
light hair  making  her  look  like  a  wreath  of 
mist.  Mark  threw  himself  into  an  easy 
chair  and  stared  moodily  at  the  floor.  His 
aunt's  words  were  not  agreeable  to  recall, 
and  had  given  him  an  unpleasant  foretaste 
of  what  would  be  said  wherever  the  fame 
of  his  marriage  should  reach. 

Elnora  sat  opposite  him  and  leaned  for- 
ward, laying  her  hand  on  his. 

"  Mark,  dear,"  she  said,  "  you  will  under- 
stand that  what  I  say  is  prompted  by  my 
love  for  you,  my  interest  in  your  great  gifts, 
and  by  my  desire  to  do  my  duty." 

"  You  are  very  good.  I  do  not  mind  your 
saying  anything  you  like." 

"  Mark,  have  you  really  made  up  your 
mind  to  take  this  step  ?  " 

"  Irrevocably." 

"You  have  thought  of  all  the  conse- 
quences ?  " 


136  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

"There  is  no  argument  she  has  not  used 
to  dissuade  me.  We  have  discussed  every 
point.  It  was  not  so  easy  a  matter  to  get 
her  consent  as  you  may  imagine." 

"Mark,"  said  Elnora,  turning  upon  him 
the  pale  splendor  of  her  ashen  eyes,  and 
looking  at  him  with  solemn  earnestness.  "  I 
know  just  how  much  you  love  this  woman,  I 
know  what  the  full  scorching  power  of  first 
love  means,  and  I  know  what  an  exquisite 
woman  Boradil  Trevor  is.  But,  Mark,  you 
have  a  higher  duty  to  yourself  than  the 
gratification  of  love — the  duty  to  your  gen- 
ius and  your  future.  Think  of  that  future — 
the  intoxication  of  its  successes,  the  stimulus 
of  rivals  and  enemies,  the  most  delicious  pos- 
sessions of  all — fame  and  power.  I  suppose 
you  would  argue  that  so  lovely  a  woman  as 
Boradil  would  but  aid  and  inspire  you,  and 
so  she  would — if  you  could  but  have  the 
divine  wisdom  to  foresee  that  she  is  the  only 
woman  you  could  ever  love,  and  that  ten, 
perhaps  five,  years  from  now,  with  ripening 
character  and  experience,  new  ideals  and 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  137 

other  wants  would  not  come  which  the  wo- 
man you  loved  with  your  first  boy's  passion 
could  not  satisfy.  You  have  the  gift  of  in- 
sight, of  prophecy,  which  goes  with  the  crea- 
tive mind  ;  cannot  your  imagination  conceive 
such  a  moment  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  it  cannot.  I  shall  never 
love  another  woman.  She  satisfies  every 
want  of  my  nature,  and  no  woman  does  that 
twice.  She  goes  with  me  into  my  world  of 
ideals  and  is  as  much  at  home  there  as  my- 
self. In  some  mysterious  way  she  possesses 
what  I  lack,  and  conveys  it  to  me  without 
word  or  look.  I  have  gone  to  her  despairing 
because  thoughts  I  searched  for  would  not 
come,  and  when  with  her  found  them  ar- 
ranging themselves  in  my  mind.  Do  you 
think  that  two  women  could  possess  that 
power  over  me  ?  " 

"  But,  Mark,  that  might  be  coincidence,  you 
know.  And  in  your  great  love  for  her  you 
may  have  idealized  her.  You  may  be  lov- 
ing love  with  the  first  ardor  of  your  man- 
hood, not  Boradil.  And  it  is  for  both  your 


138  A  QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

sakes — for  you  must  know  that  she  could 
be  even  more  miserable  than  you — that  I 
ask  you  to  listen  to  the  plan  I  have  to  pro- 
pose." 

"Well,  what  is  it?" 

"  Mark,  I  repeat  that  with  a  man  or 
woman  of  your  years  love  is  only  passion. 
That  gratified,  the  love  goes.  Do  not  marry 
this  woman.  Learn — without  taking  the 
world  into  your  confidence — whether  you 
love  her  lastingly  or  not.  If  at  the  end  of  a 
year  you  still  love  her,  you  may  believe  in 
yourself  and  it  will  be  safe  to  marry  her. 
If  you  find  that  you  have  made  a  mistake,  no 
harm  will  have  been  done  and  everything  be 
gained." 

He  had  flung  her  hand  from  him  as  if  its 
soft  skin  had  turned  to  scales. 

"  How  dare  you  insult  such  a  woman  ?  " 
he  gasped,  purple  with  rage.  "How  dare 
you?" 

She  smiled.  "  My  dear  boy,  if  you  were 
ten  years  older  you  would  speak  of  wisdom, 
not  of  insult." 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  139 

He  put  his  face  close  to  hers,  his  wrath 
drowned  in  sudden  curiosity. 

"  How  is  it  that  you  know  so  much  ?  "  he 
demanded  with  his  crude  abruptness. 

The  pink  color  rose  to  her  hair.  Then  she 
crossed  the  room  and  unlocked  a  drawer  in 
a  quaint  old  chest.  She  lifted  out  a  large 
portfolio  like  those  used  for  photographs  of 
famous  pictures  and  ]aid  it  on  a  table. 

"  Come  here,"  she  said. 

Mark,  much  mystified,  went  to  her  side, 
and  she  opened  the  portfolio,  displaying 
three  large  squares  of  cardboard.  The  sur- 
face of  but  one  was  visible,  and  on  it  was 
mounted  a  pen  and  ink  drawing  as  fine  and 
skilful  as  an  etching. 

"  What  do  you  see  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  see  what  I  suppose  is  a  court  ball. 
That  looks  like  royalty  over  there,  and  there 
are  enough  diplomats  hanging  about  to  boil 
Europe  alive.  All  these  men  and  women 
look  like  Germans  or — ah  !  that  is  you  !." 

He  lifted  the  picture,  holding  it  nearer  the 
lamp.  Elnora  was  evidently  resting  from 


140  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

the  dance,  and  over  her  was  bending  a  man 
whose  face  Mark  could  not  see.  But  al- 
though his  head  was  turned,  the  great  star  on 
his  breast  and  the  white  ribbon  on  his  shoul- 
der proclaimed  his  rank. 

He  put  down  the  sketch  and  took  up  the 
next.  The  bold  outlines  and  battlements  of 
a  mediaeval  castle  towered  in  the  background. 
A  few  stars  lit  a  park,  a  wilderness  in  the 
night,  bleak  and  mysterious.  Half-hidden 
by  the  shadows  were  two  figures  clasped  in 
close  embrace.  Elnora's  white  profile  was 
cut  against  the  dark  like  the  new  moon  on 
night,  but  again  the  face  of  the  man  was  un- 
seen, although  his  figure  was  unmistakably 
that  of  the  man  whose  devotion  had  been  in- 
dicated in  the  other  picture.  Passion  was 
in  his  straining  arms,  and  in  the  sudden  eager 
downward  sweep  of  his  head. 

Mark  hastily  sent  the  sketch  after  the  first, 
interested  to  the  core  of  his  romantic  nature. 
The  third  scene  was  a  chapel,  and  again  it 
was  night.  The  shadows  thronged  like  the 
buried  dead  in  every  part  save  by  the  altar. 


A  QUESTION  OF  TIME.  141 

Behind  the  chancel  rail  stood  a  priest  with 
more  fear  than  holiness  on  his  face.  Before 
him  stood  a  man  and  a  woman.  The 
woman's  back  was  also  turned  this  time,  but 
there  was  no  mistaking  the  proud  repose  of 
head  and  the  splendid  poise  of  shoulders. 
Near  them  stood  two  men  in  full  uniform, 
one  of  them  glancing  furtively  about  the 
chapel.  The  carved  beams,  the  stately  altar, 
the  rich  pictures,  the  pointed  windows,  all 
were  indicated  with  startling  effect ;  the  very 
shadows  seemed  to  move. 

Mark  laid  the  picture  down  and  looked  at 
Elnora.  He  was  deeply  interested  in  her 
for  the  first  time.  She  was  no  longer  the 
conventional  young  woman. 

"  This  is  a  real  live  romance,"  he  said, 
"  and  you  are  a " 

"  You  must  ask  me  no  questions.  It  is 
enough  to  say  that  that  episode  in  my  life  is 
sealed  and  sepulchred.  I  have  shown  you 
these  pictures  for  an  object — in  the  hope 
that  my  experience  might  be  useful  to  you 
now.  I  loved  that  man  with  all  the  passion, 


142  A  QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

all  the  self-abnegation,  all  the  reckless  disre- 
gard of  consequences  of  first  love.  He  was 
intellectual,  witty,  fascinating.  At  the  end 
of  a  year  I  was  so  tired  of  him  that  I  grew 
to  anticipate  every  inflection  of  his  voice  and 
to  speculate  which  would  give  me  the  pro- 
foundest  feeling  of  ennui.  Now,  have  my 
words  any  weight  with  you  ?  " 

He  had  watched  her  with  the  keen  delight 
of  the  born  analyst,  his  own  affairs  for  the 
moment  forgotten. 

"And  what  are  you  going  to  do  with 
yourself  now  ?  "  he  asked,  curiously. 

"  I  wish  to  marry  you  !  " 

Mark  actually  blushed,  but  he  felt  the 
flattery  of  being  the  choice  of  a  woman  with 
such  beauty  and  such  a  history. 

"  I  shall  never  love  again,"  she  continued, 
calmly,  "but  I  wish  to  marry  you  because 
you  are  a  man  of  genius,  and  through  you  I 
can  become  famous  myself.  I  wish  to  have 
a  salon,  to  have  great  men  at  my  feet,  to  be 
a  second  Madame  Recamier.  Men  of  genius 
are  apt  to  be  low-born,  but  there  is  no  better 


A  QUESTION  OF  TIME.  143 

blood  in  America  than  the  Saltonstall's,  and 
you  are  one  of  the  few  men  I  could  endure 
as  a  husband." 

"  Upon  my  word,  Elnora,  if  I  did  not  love 
another  woman  with  every  drop  of  blood  in 
my  body  and  every  cell  in  my  brain,  I 
believe  I  would  accept  your  proposal,  for 
you  are  a  stunning  woman.  But  if  you 
are  so  ambitious,  why  did  you  not  cling  to 
your " 

"  I  told  you  that  you  must  ask  no  ques- 
tions," interrupted  his  cousin.  She  came 
close  to  him  and  laid  her  hand  on  his 
arm.  In  the  half-light  she  looked  like  a 
dim  cloud  queen,  as  softly  cold,  as  subtly  en- 
veloping. 

"  Have  I  not  moved  you  ?  "  she  murmured. 
"  You  still  persist  in  your  mad  determina- 
tion ?  " 

"  You  have  not  moved  me,"  he  said,  "  be- 
cause you  have  no  argument.  You  were 
dazzled  by  the  romance,  the  adventure,  the 
danger.  You  loved  the  man  for  his  rank, 
his  shallow  attractions.  You  will  not  admit 


144:  A  QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

it,  but  mentally  he  was  your  inferior.  If  he 
had  been  the  prince  of  a  Boston  drawing- 
room  you  would  have  accepted  him  with  no 
illusions,  and  a  public  wedding.  You  would 
probably  have  tired  of  him  during  the  en- 
gagement and  foregone  the  honeymoon.  I 
know  that  man's  mental  capacity  by  the 
shape  of  his  head." 

She  had  turned  her  face  from  the  light. 
"  I  give  you  up,1'  she  replied,  and  her  even 
tones  betrayed  nothing.  tl  But  perhaps  some 
day  you  will  remember  my  advice,  cold- 
blooded though  it  may  be.  Well,  gang  your 
own  gait.  I  will  stand  by  you." 

He  gave  her  hand  a  grateful  pressure. 
"  Thank  you  for  that,"  he  said.  "  And  now 
good-night.  I  shall  go  down  to  one  of  the 
hotels,  for  I  do  not  care  to  meet  Aunt  Anne 
again.  To-morrow  morning  I  shall  see  Red 
Hopkins  and  ask  him  to  circulate  the  story 
of  my  engagement  at  once.  I  do  this  that 
Mrs.  Trevor  shall  have  no  chance  to  retract 
through  any  mistaken  idea  of  duty." 

"  Good-night,"    she  said.     "  I  await    the 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  145 

denouement.  And  remember  "•  —pointing  to 
the  pictures — tl  no  one  in  America  knows  of 
this  but  you." 

"  And  no  one  will,"  he  said. 


10 


XVI. 

BOBADIL  went  about  for  a  few  days  in  an 
atmosphere  of  half-tones.  The  step  taken, 
she  gave  no  more  regret  to  the  past,  shot  no 
more  terrifying  glances  down  the  future. 
Her  youth  had  never  left  her,  therefore  the 
first  mental  shock  having  passed,  the  love 
she  felt  and  received,  the  profound  stirring 
of  .her  emotions,  seemed  natural  enough.  If 
possible,  she  looked  younger  than  before. 
Her  face  was  more  mobile,  her  eyes  more 
luminous,  her  mouth  fuller.  Mark  spent 
almost  every  hour  of  the  day  with  her,  and 
the  sense  of  fellowship  deepened,  although 
they  were  a  little  shy  about  outward  demon- 
strations ;  it  was  too  new  an  experience  to 
both. 

Mark  had  written  at  once  to  his  father, 
and  three  days  later  he  went  to  the  station 
to  meet  him.  Boradil  was  sitting  alone 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  147 

when  Mrs.  Hopkins's  name  was  brought  in. 
She  felt  much  like  sending  an  excuse,  know- 
ing what  her  friend  had  come  to  say,  but  on 
second  thoughts  concluded  to  have  it  over  at 
once.  So  Mrs.  Hopkins  was  shown  in. 

She  greeted  Boradil  a  little  stiffly,  although 
her  hands  were  trembling.  Then  as  she 
seated  herself,  she  blurted  out : 

"Tell  me,  Boradil  Trevor,  is  this  terrible 
thing  I  hear  about  you  true  ?  " 

"  That  I  am  going  to  marry  Mark  Salton- 
stall  ?  Yes."  She  spoke  calmly,  but  blushed 
a  little. 

Mrs.  Hopkins  put  her  handkerchief  to  her 
face  and  burst  into  tears.  "  Oh,  Boradil ! 
Boradil!"  she  sobbed,  "I  never,  never 
would  have  believed  it  of  you." 

Mrs.  Trevor  made  no  reply,  and  in  a  mo- 
ment the  good  lady  put  down  her  handker- 
chief and  resumed. 

"  We  were  at  school  together,  dear,  in  the 
same  class,  and  you  know  that  I  love  you, 
and  what  I  feel  is  only  for  you.  Nothing 
could  ever  make  me  love  you  less,  but  I 


14:8  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

cannot  understand  this  or  sympathize  with 
it.  I  feel  so  old,  so  matronly,  that  such 
rashness,  such  youthful  folly  in  a  woman 
my  own  age  is  incomprehensible  to  me.  I 
look  at  my  grown  daughters,  at  my  grand- 
children, and  I  marvel  that  a  woman  of  my 
age  can  act  like  a  girl  of  sixteen.  Do  you 
realize,  Boradil,  that  you  might  be  like  me 
— stout,  care-worn? — that  you  might  have 
grandchildren  ?  That  it  is  only  an  accident 
—that — that — you — are — not  ?  " 

"  If  I  were  like  you,  Hetty,"  said  Boradil, 
gently,  "  with  a  husband  I  had  loved  from 
youth,  I  should  not  love  any  other  man,  old 
or  young,  at  any  age.  But  you  must  re- 
member that  I  have  lived  an  almost  solitary 
and  loveless  life ;  and  now  that  love  has 
come  to  me  at  the  last  moment — I  have  not 
the  strength  to  resist  it." 

"  But  such  a  .  young  man — such  a  boy, 
Boradil.  How  can  you  love  one  who  might 
be  your  son  ?  If  it  were  an  older  man — Mr. 
Irving,  for  instance — I  should  not  say  a  word. 
Indeed,  no  one  could  blame  you,  so  young- 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  149 

looking  and  pretty,  for  marrying  again. 
But  that  young  boy.  I  cannot  understand 
it." 

"  Hetty,  can  you  explain  to  me  why  you 
love  Mr.  Hopkins  ?  " 

u  I  suppose — no  ;  how  can  we  explain  those 
things?" 

"  Then  I  can  no  better  explain  why  I  love 
Mark  Saltonstall.  I  love  him  absolutely, 
and  if  you  did  not  make  a  mistake  in  your 
inexperienced  youth,  is  it  likely  that  I  shall 
make  one  with  my  mature  judgment  ?  " 

"  But,  Boradil,  you  know  it  is  an  under- 
stood fact — everybody  says  so — that  these 
marriages  always  turn  out  badly.  Oh,  you 
don't  know  what  people  are  saying  !  Every- 
body is  perfectly  wild.  I  hear  that  even 
the  town  and  the  summer  hotel  talk  of  noth- 
ing else.  And  when  they  are  not  ridiculing 
you,  dear,  and  making  the  most  dreadful 
jokes,  they  say  that  his  life  is  ruined,  that  it 
is  always  the  case  when  a  young  man  marries 
an  old — a  woman  much  older  than  himself. 
And  they  say  that  you  will  be  the  most 


150  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

wretched  woman  in  existence  two  years  from 
now.  He  will  get  tired  of  you  and  fall  in 
love  with  some  girl.  Then  he  will  suffer 
and  make  you  suffer.  Oh,  Boradil !  I  can- 
not bear  to  think  of  it." 

"Did  not  you  tell  me  once,  Hetty,  that 
the  first  two  years  of  your  married  life — be- 
fore your  children  came  and  cares  began — 
were  ideally  happy  ?  " 

"  They  were,  indeed,  Boradil.  They 
were !  " 

"  And  would  you  not  willingly  bear  again 
all  the  care  and  suffering,  and  petty  and 
heavy  trials  of  the  later  years,  for  the  sake 
of  having  had  those  two  ?  " 

"  Gladly,  Boradil." 

"  Then  know  that  for  two  years  of  a  like 
happiness  I  would  be  willing  to  drag  out 
the  rest  of  my  life  in  such  wretchedness  as 
you  have  never  dreamed  of.  Such  is  the 
imperious  demand  of  my  woman's  nature  for 
its  rights." 

"  Oh,  Boradil,  I  sympathize  with  you,  I 
do,  I  do.  And  you  have  made  me  see  just 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  151 

how  you  feel  and  are  impelled  to  act.  But 
dear,  dear,  think  of  the  scandal.  How  can 
you  face  it  ?  You  cannot  imagine  how  peo- 
ple are  talking.  You  will  be  in  the  papers. 
I  am  sure  you  will." 

"  I  shall  not  read  them." 

"  And — dearest — I  am  afraid  people  will 
cut  you  !  " 

"  If  in  the  forty-six  years  of  my  life  I  have 
not  made  friends  strong  enough  to  stand  by 
me  now,  they  will  be  well  exchanged  for 
what  I  have  found.  As  I  look  back  it  does 
not  seem  to  me  that  these  same  old  friends 
have  troubled  themselves  much  about  me. 
They  have  been  absorbed  in  their  own  full 
domestic  lives,  and  have  not  gone  out  of  their 
way  to  make  my  life  less  lonely.  It  does 
not  seem  to  me  that  they  should  weigh  very 
heavily  against  the  dearest  wish  of  my 
life." 

"  I  have  loved  you,  Boradil !  w 

Mrs.  Trevor  bent  forward  and  laying  her 
two  hands  about  Mrs.  Hopkins's  tear-stained 
face,  kissed  her  affectionately. 


152  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

"  I  know  you  have,  and  you  love  rne  still. 
You  will  never  desert  me,  no  matter  how 
much  you  may  scold." 

It  was  impossible  to  resist  Boradil  when 
she  chose  to  be  winning,  and  Mrs.  Hopkins 
straightway  put  both  arms  about  her,  and 
vowed  that  she  would  love  her  until  death, 
and  defend  her  while  breath  was  in  her  own 
body. 

She  drank  the  cup  of  peace  and  went  away 
soon  after,  much  to  Boradil's  relief.  She 
had  hardly  gone,  however,  when  Mr.  Irving 
was  announced.  Boradil  groaned  in  spirit, 
but  told  the  maid  to  show  him  in. 

He  took  a  chair  where  he  could  command 
a  good  view  of  her  face,  and  what  he  saw  in 
it  smote  him  sorely.  It  was  an  acuter  pang 
than  he  had  felt  when  he  heard  of  her  en- 
gagement. 

"  Is  this  true,  Boradil  ?  "  he  asked,  lamely. 

"  Yes." 

"  And  you  love  a  boy,  although  you  could 
not  love  me  !  "  he  burst  out,  bitterly. 

"Yes." 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIMS.  153 

The  monosyllables  seemed  cruel,  but  she 
could  think  of  nothing  else  to  say. 

"Do  you — do  you  love  him  very  much, 
Boradil?" 

"  Do  you  think  anything  else  could  give 
me  the  courage  to  do  such  a  thing  ?  " 

"  By  heaven,  you  have  got  courage  !  I 
admire  you  for  that  if  for  nothing  else.  It 
is  an  heroic  act,  mad  and  reprehensible  as  it 


is." 


"Are  you  conventional,  like  the  rest  of 
the  world  \  " 

"  Such  a  thing  is  counter  to  the  very  laws 
of  nature,  assuredly  to  those  of  society." 

"  I  said  you  were  conventional." 

"  If  one  lives  in  the  world  and  avails  him- 
self of  the  enjoyments  of  civilization,  it  is 
only  just  to  conform  to  the  laws  laid  down 
in  it.  Conventionality  is  not  as  ugly  a  word 
as  many  that  will  be  applied  to  you." 

"  You  have  said  that  you  love  me.  If 
you  met  me  now  for  the  first  time,  and 
I  were  but  twenty-two,  would  you  love 
me  ?  " 


154:  A  QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

"  You  know  that  I  could  love  no   other 


woman " 


"  Would  not  you  wish  to  marry  me  ?  '' 

"  Certainly.  I  see  your  drift.  But  I  am 
a  man ;  it  would  be  an  entirely  different 
matter." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  it  is  always  fitting  that  a  man 
should  be  older  than  his  wife." 

"  You  mean  it  is  the  custom,  an  ancient 
habit.  It  seems  to  me  no  more  fitting  that 
a  man  should  marry  a  woman  thirty  years 
his  junior,  than  that  a  woman  should  take  a 
husband  as  many  years  younger  than  herself. 
The  one  is  done  every  day,  and  hardly  a 
word  is  said ;  the  other  is  a  signal  for  cen- 
sure and  abuse.  The  world  hates  to  get  out 
of  its  rut ;  it  resents  being  taken  by  surprise. 
When  all  women  who  happen  to  love  men 
younger  than  themselves  have  the  courage  to 
marry  them,  the  world  will  cease  to  be  sur- 
prised, and  then  it  will  cease  to  censure. 
Custom  is  the  only  standard  we  have  of 
right  and  wrong."  She  half  smiled  as  she 


A  QUESTION  OF  TIME.  155 

found  herself  using  Mark's  arguments  to 
herself. 

"  You  have  always  had  a  clear  head, 
Boradil,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  you  are  the 
most  exquisitely  feminine  woman  on  earth. 
But  you  surely  know  how  disastrous  such  a 
marriage  must  be  in  the  end." 

"  Have  you  never  heard  of  other  marriages 
where  age  was  all  that  it  should  be  and  yet 
which  ended  in  disaster?  Among  the  thou- 
sands of  divorces  that  are  granted  every  year 
does  the  rule  show  that  the  woman  is  older 
than  the  man,  or  that  they  are  of  nearly 
equal  years  ?  Do  you  know  of  so  many 
people  who  are  happy  and  well-mated  ? 
Has  your  experience  taught  you — and  you  a 
lawyer  ! — that  the  conventional  difference  of 
years  insures  a  happy  union  ? " 

"  There  are  as  many  happy  as  unhappy 
marriages  in  the  world." 

"  True  ;  and  age  has  nothing  to  do  with  it, 
else  would  they  all  be  happy.  Happiness 
grows  out  of  true  sympathy  and  companion- 
ship. Love  averts  the  disasters  which  are 


156  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

born  of  the  trials  of  matrimony,  not  a  deco- 
rous difference  of  years.  I  believe  that  my 
chances  of  happiness  are  far  greater  than 
those  of  a  callow  girl  who  marries  the  first 
boy  who  flatters  her." 

"  Perhaps,  Boradil,  perhaps."  He  was 
not  in  the  mood  for  arguing.  The  bitter 
truth  that  she  loved  another  man  with  all 
the  sweet  strength  of  her  nature  was  becom- 
ing harder  to  endure  with  each  word  she 
uttered. 

"  One  thing  does  not  seem  to  have  occurr- 
ed to  you,"  continued  Boradil.  "  Before  I 
was  twenty  they  married  me  to  a  man  double 
my  age,  and  no  one  seemed  to  think  there 
was  anything  incongruous  in  the  match.  In 
fact  1  was  considered  very  lucky,  for  he  was 
rich  and  I  was  poor.  I  made  no  protest,  for 
I  was  a  child,  and  it  seemed  a  charming  thing 
to  have  a  big  house  of  my  own  and  to  be  a 
married  woman.  I  developed  so  slowly  that 
not  until  this  past  week  has  it  ever  occurred 
to  me  that  to  be  married  for  twenty-one 
years  to  an  unloved  man  was  a  horror  the 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  157 

greater  that  in  my  dreaming  existence  I 
never  suspected  it.  But  no  one  else  seemed 
to  think  of  it  either,  or  of  the  wrong  of 
marrying  a  young  girl  to  a  dry  and  prosaic 
man  of  business.  And  yet  now  when  I  wish 
to  be  happy  and  to  marry  the  man  of  my 
choice,  the  world  turns  upon  me  and  cries, 
< Thou  fool!'" 

Her  voice  had  grown  passionate,  almost 
angry,  and  Mr.  Irving  stood  up  as  she 
finished.  His  face  was  very  white. 

"Good-by,  Boradil,"  he  said,  "I  would 
rather  not  hear  you  say  any  more.  Marry 
this  man  if  you  will,  and  I  hope  and  pray 
that  you  may  be  happy.  You  have  only  my 
good  wishes.  You  deserve  nothing  but  the 
best  that  the  world  can  give  you." 


XVII. 

HE  drove  over  to  Mrs.  Brewster's  because 
he  wished  to  get  away  from  his  own 
thoughts,  and  because  he  had  been  bidden 
there  in  common  with  the  rest  of  his  circle 
to  meet  Elnora  Brewster. 

Many  women  and  several  men  were  seated 
on  the  broad  veranda,  and  it  took  but  a 
few  moments  to  learn  that  Boradil  Trevor 
was  the  sole  topic  of  conversation.  Elnora, 
non-committal,  clad  in  diaphanous  black, 
looked  like  a  placid  moon  resting  on  a  storm- 
cloud.  Mrs.  Brewster  was  sitting  in  a 
straight-backed  chair,  her  cold  eyes  aflame, 
her  mouth  hard.  All  had  appealed  to  her  to 
make  up  their  minds  for  them.  What  would 
she  do  ?  How  would  she  treat  Boradil  Tre- 
vor? What  did  she  think?  What  had  she 
said  to  her  nephew  ? 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  159 

"  This  is  what  I  will  do,"  said  Mrs.  Brews- 
ter,  "  I  will  never  speak  to  either  my  nephew 
or  Boradil  Trevor  again.  He  is  a  young 
fool  and  she  is  a  bad  woman."  There  were 
several  "  Oh !  Oh's,"  but  Mrs.  Bre  water 
went  on  with  the  same  cold  heat.  "  She  is  a 
bad  woman  because  she  is  nearly  fifty  years 
old,  and  she  takes  advantage  of  the  foolish 
passion  of  a  boy  of  twenty.  She  deliberate- 
ly ruins  his  life,  and  disgraces  his  family  and 
her  own.  I  should  never  respect  myself  if 
I  spoke  to  her  again.  You,  of  course,  can 
do  as  you  please." 

It  was  evident  that  most  of  the  company 
would  do  as  their  leader  pleased,  but  a  few 
looked  rebellious  and  disposed  to  stand  by 
Boradil  Trevor.  The  girls  were  tittering 
and  sneering ;  they  had  all  the  contempt  of 
inexperience  for  the  weaknesses  of  their  sex ; 
but  an  occasional  woman  of  niaturer  years 
felt  a  vague  sympathy,  perhaps  envy,  for  the 
passion  which  impelled  such  reckless  defi- 
ance of  the  World — and  respected  it. 

"  I  wish  to  say,"  continued  Mrs.  Brewster, 


1GO  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

"  that  I  should  be  glad  to  have  those  who  in- 
tend to  continue  their  acquaintance  with  this 
woman  let  me  know  of  the  fact,  as  I  shall 
not  care  to  run  the  risk  of  meeting  her  at 
their  houses." 

Manifest  disturbance  followed  this  decla- 
ration of  war.  Disruption  of  Danforth's 
exclusive  forty  was  threatening.  People 
gave  each  other  little  apprehensive  side- 
glances  ;  no  one  seemed  to  yearn  for  the 
honor  of  speaking  first.  Before  the  silence 
could  become  awkward  Elnora's  voice,  as 
silveren  as  her  eyes,  made  itself  heard. 

"  I  would  not  bother  any  more  just  now, 
mamma,"  she  said ;  "  I  hear  that  Mrs.  Trevor 
intends  leaving  Danforth  at  once  and  for 
good.  .  That  will  settle  matters." 

A  sigh  of  relief  swept  softly  down  the  ve- 
randa, and  Mrs.  Brews  ter's  guests  began 
talking  with  unwonted  animation  for  so  warm 
a  day  upon  a  variety  of  topics  in  which  Bora- 
dil  Trevor  had  no  place.  Mr.  Irviug  made 
his  way  over  to  Elnora.  Her  tact  reminded 
him  of  Boradil,  and  as  he  talked  with  her 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  161 

the   resemblance    deepened.      He    had    not 
Mark's   insight    to  teach  him  the    spurious 
from  the  real,  and  he  paid  all  a  man's  trib- 
ute to  Elnora's  manufactured  charm. 
11 


XVIII. 

AT  eight  that  evening,  as  Mrs.  Brewster 
and  her  daughter  were  sitting  on  the  veran- 
da, one  of  the  town  hacks  drove  up  and 
Mr.  Saltonstall  alighted.  He  was  a  tall 
slender  man,  distinguished  and  intellectual 
looking,  and  bore  that  fleeting  resemblance 
to  his  son  which  a  photograph  of  the  wrong 
side  of  a  face  does  to  the  subject. 

Mrs.  Brewster  received  him  stiffly,  but 
curiosity  made  her  less  cold  than  if  she  had 
been  already  acquainted  with  the  result  of 
his  visit.  Elnora  gave  him  a  soft  earnest 
welcome,  patting  his  hand  sympathetically, 
and  he  kissed  her  and  told  her  that  she 
looked  like  his  grandmother,  who  had  been 
the  handsomest  of  the  Saltonstalls.  He  sat 
down  by  her,  facing  his  sister. 

"  Well  ? "      demanded     Mrs.      Brewster. 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  163 

"What  do   you  think   of   this   unfortunate 
and  ridiculous  business  ?  " 

"  It  is  very  interesting,"  said  Mr.  Salton- 
stall  with  a  slight,  somewhat  cynical,  smile. 

"  Very  what  ?  " 

"  Interesting.  You  know  that  I  loved  my 
wife  very  deeply,  and  that  since  her  death 
I  have  taken  little  personal  interest  in 
life.  But,  as  I  am  compelled  to  live,  I 
find  deep  and  constant  amusement  in  the 
ever-varying  phenomena  of  human  nature. 
Its  problems — like  the  one  which  concerns 
us — are  intensely  fascinating  to  me.  Think 
of  a  woman  of  forty-six  having  the  mental 
youthfulness  to  love  a  man  of  twenty -two ! 
What  more  interesting?  And  Mark,  al- 
though I  have  all  a  father's  affection  for 
him,  is  far  more  interesting  to  me  as  the  ge- 
nius than  as  the  man,  and  I  have  kept  a  sort 
of  mental  diary  of  each  of  his  successive 
developments.  This  is  the  most  significant 
and  entertaining  of  all." 

"Oh,   I   know  of  old  your   cold-blooded 
way  of  looking  at  things,"  interrupted  his 


164:  A   QUESTION'  OF  TIME. 

sister,  impatiently,  "  and  I  cannot  say  that  I 
am  at  all  interested  in  your  peculiar  method 
of  taking  life.  What  I  wish  to  know  is — 
what  steps  are  you  going  to  take  to  prevent 
your  son  disgracing  himself  and  his  whole 
family  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  shall  let  him  marry  Mrs.  Trevor." 

"John  Saltonstall !  " 

"  Yes  ;  I  will  give  you  my  reasons  if  you 
care  to  hear  them." 

Mrs.  firewater  was  shaking  from  head  to 
foot,  but  she  wished  to  keep  her  self-control 
before  her  brother.  As  she  was  speechless 
Mr.  Saltonstall  continued. 

"  I  spent  an  hour  with  Mrs.  Trevor  this 
afternoon,  and  I  am  convinced  that  she  is 
the  wife  for  my  son,  the  woman  who  will 
most  further  his  advancement.  It  is  my  ma- 
tured opinion  that  men  of  genius  should 
marry  women  older  than  themselves.  For 
this  reason :  when  a  man  has  genius  his 
character  rarely  develops  beyond  boyhood. 
He  is  always  more  or  less  of  a  child,  impul- 
sive, irrational,  irresponsible.  He  is  like  a 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  165 

double  flower,  growing  with  a  fair  show  of 
equality  for  a  while.  Then  one  side  begins 
to  draw  to  it  all  the  sunshine  and  moisture, 
leaving  the  other  perfect  as  far  as  it  go.es, 
perhaps,  but  stunted  for  the  rest  of  its  time. 
Therefore  when  a  man  of  that  order  marries 
an  undisciplined  girl  it  means  the  ruin  of 
both.  It  would  not  make  so  much  differ- 
ence about  the  girl  if  she  were  commonplace, 
which  she  probably  would  be,  but  it  would 
leave  him  rudderless  and  incomplete  to  the 
end  of  his  days.  Now,  if  he  marries  a  wom- 
an more  than  his  age,  a  woman  who  pos- 
sesses the  self-control,  the  patience,  the  calm, 
the  deliberation,  which  years  alone  can 
bring,,  a  woman  who  has  absorbed  expe- 
rience and  knowledge  from  time  as  it  passes, 
even  if  practically  little  has  come  to  her, 
such  a  woman  will  supply  what  the  man  of 
intellectual  endowment  lacks,  and  together 
they  make  the  perfect  whole.  Of  course  she 
should  be  intelligent  without  being  intellect- 
ual and  ambitious ;  she  should  have  tact 
and  cleverness  without  genius  or  even  talent. 


1G6  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

Intellectual  women  are  mentally  polyga- 
mous  " 

At  this  point  Mrs.  Brews ter  rose  and 
looked  at  her  brother  with  white  lips  and 
eyes. 

"  You  are  a  fool,"  she  said,  and  swept  into 
the  house. 

Elnora  leaned  forward  and  fixed  her  ice- 
like  magnetic  eyes  on  her  uncle's  face. 

"  You  make  this  strange  affair  very  inter- 
esting," she  said,  "  and  I  want  to  hear  all 
you  have  to  say  about  it.  You  have  an  ex- 
traordinary faculty  of  putting  things  in  a 
new  light — of  changing  one's  whole  point  of 
view.  But  there  is  one  thing — surely  you 
do  not  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  are  an  advo- 
cate of  young  men  marrying  women  twice 
their  age  ?  " 

"  Not  under  all  circumstances,  no,"  he  said, 
warmed  to  new  interest,  and  stroking  her 
hand  as  it  lay  white  and  cool  as  a  moonbeam 
on  her  black  gown,  "  only  when  a  man  is 
over-intellectual — even  when  not  a  genius. 
Then,  always.  I  believe  it  to  be  the  only 


A  QUESTION  OF  TIME.  167 

possible  balance.  There  must  be  absolute 
respect  and  fellowship  in  married  life  and  no 
woman  of  mature  age  will  respect  a  young 
fool  or  fail  to  be  bored  by  him  after  a  short 
period,  no  matter  how  his  youth  and  beauty 
may  have  conquered  her  senses.  He  must 
counterbalance  her  acquired  wisdom  by  su- 
perior intellect." 

"  But,  uncle,  men  of  genius  are  usually 
passionate  to  sensuality,  and  after  a  time  an 
old  woman  must  cease  to  have  any  charm  for 
them." 

"  I  see  that  you  have  studied  men  and 
done  some  thinking  even  if  you  are  a  girl ; 
but  being  a  young  woman,  your  knowledge 
of  your  sex  is  naturally  limited.  A  woman 
of  fifty,  whose  health  is  perfect,  is  as  young 
as  you  are  and  likely  to  remain  so.  Physi- 
cal youth  is  not  a  matter  of  years,  but  of 
good  constitution  and  careful  life.  Age 
means  loss  of  heart,  and  allowing  the  health, 
— the  body — to  run  to  seed.  Neglect  one 
rose-bush  and  water  another  of  the  same  age 
and  you  will  see  what  I  mean.  Boradil 


168  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

Trevor,  slender  and  dainty  as  she  is,  is 
wrought  of  supple  steel.  The  simplicity  of 
her  character  will  preserve  her  youthful  ex- 
pression, and  her  woman's  vanity  and  clever- 
ness will  look  after  her  complexion  and  fig- 
ure. I  don't  believe  Mrs.  Trevor  ever  lost  a 
night's  sleep  or  felt  a  pang  of  dyspepsia  in 
her  life/' 

"  Well,  uncle,  you  convince  me  that  Mrs. 
Trevor  is  the  wife  for  Mark,  if  he  must  have 
one,"  assented  this  delectable  young  diplo- 
mat ;  "  but  I  confess  I  do  not  agree  with  you 
in  thinking  that  it  is  necessary  for  him  to 
marry  at  all.  If  he  has  genius  is  not  that 
enough  ?  What  does  he  want  with  personal 
happiness  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Elnora,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
fact,  already  dwelt  upon,  that  he  needs  bal- 
last, sympathy,  and  encouragement,  love 
gratified  will  develop  his  genius  and  give 
him  deeper  insight.  Balked,  he  would 
spend  a  half  dozen  years  eating  his  heart  out 
and  inflicting  the  public  with  the  false  and 
morbid  wails  of  a  blighted  life.  It  would 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  169 

take  him  many  to  readjust  himself  and  com- 
prehend life  broadly  and  impersonally.  The 
narrowing  and  contracting  of  the  ego  by  ear- 
ly disappointment  has  taken  the  best  years 
out  of  many  an  artist.  Real  genius — intui- 
tive wisdom,  creative  power — can  dispense 
with  worldly  experience  but  cannot  pass 
through  an  unfortunate  one  of  the  heart  un- 
warped  or  unscathed.  Human  nature  is  at 
once  too  strong  and  too  weak." 

He  rose  and  walked  up  and  down  the 
porch,  then  spoke  again  : 

"  I  am  minded  to  make  you  a  confession, 
my  charming  niece.  It  is  this :  Everything 
that  my  son  is  I  wished  to  be.  I  had  the  am- 
bition without  the  gift ;  I  used  to  lie  awake 
at  night,  even  when  I  was  a  college  boy, 
trying  to  string  grandly  sounding  phrases 
together  and  make  them  rhyme.  I  used  to 
construct  air  worlds  which  I  shook  like 
Byron  or  wherein  I  preached  upon  a  mount 
like  Shelley.  By  one  of  those  mysterious 
evolutions  of  soul  and  of  mind  my  off- 
spring combines  the  desire  and  the  power, 


1TO  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

the  ambition  and  the  genius.  Not  to  call 
one  of  those  planets  up  there  my  own  would 
I  lay  the  slightest  blight  upon  him,  put  a 
stone  in  his  path,  warp  a  corner  of  his  brain. 
I  should  feel  both  a  murderer  and  a  suicide. 
I  should  feel  that  I  had  entered  his  brain 
like  an  assassin  and  maimed  the  god  who  sat 
there  enthroned.  If  I  found  this  woman  un- 
worthy, my  power  over  him  is  strong  enough 
to  enable  me  to  convince  him  of  the  fact,  and 
he  would  recover  from  a  little  heartburning 
none  the  worse ;  but  as  it  is — Well,  here 
comes  the  hack.  I  told  the  man  to  return  in 
an  hour.  Good-night.  There  is  nothing 
commonplace  about  you,  by  the  way;  you 
are  as  charming  a  listener  as  Mrs.  Trevor, 
and  you  have  a  face  for  history.  You  ought 
to  marry  a  big  man." 

"  I  shall,"  she  said. 

Her  uncle  laughed,  and  bidding  her  good- 
night drove  away. 


IX. 

BOKADIL  sat  alone  again  the  next  night. 
Mr.  Saltonstall  had  asked  Mark  to  ride  out 
into  the  country  with  him  to  visit  an  old 
friend,  and,  all  things  considered,  his  son 
could  hardly  refuse.  He  had  made  Boradil 
promise,  however,  to  walk  with  him  in  the 
wood  at  four,  and  not  feeling  sleepy  she  had 
determined  to  sit  up. 

She  had  been  surprised  and  elated  at  Mr. 
Saltonstall's  sanction  of  her  marriage,  but 
to-night  she  was  depressed.  The  late  mail 
had  brought  her  a  stinging  letter  from  her 
brother,  who  knew  how  to  season  his  ink 
with  acid  and  gall.  Some  one  also,  had 
kindly  sent  her  a  marked  copy  of  a  New 
York  paper  containing  a  letter  from  a  Dan- 
forth  correspondent.  In  this  letter  she  was 
placed  in  a  ridiculous  and  humiliating  light, 
described  by  a  person  who  had  never  seen 


172  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME, 

her,  as  passe*e  and  "made  up."  A  cartoon 
portrayed  a  large  fleshy  prancing  woman 
dragging  along  an  unwilling-looking  young- 
ster by  a  hand  soiled  with  mud  pies.  Being 
unused  to  the  sensational  world,  she  was 
disgusted  and  indignant  that  her  private 
life  should  be  uninspected,  her  most  sacred 
feelings  held  up  to  comment  and  ridicule. 
It  made  her  feel  trivial  and  vulgar  ;  her 
delicate  pride  seemed  slipping  from  her ; 
she  ceased  for  the  moment  to  believe  that 
she  was  really  a  gentlewoman ;  she  felt, 
rather,  like  a  third-rate  actress.  Her  wom- 
an's vanity  had  also  received  an  ugly 
thrust.  She  cared  nothing  for  the  world, 
but  she  did  not  find  it  pleasant  to  learn  that 
it  believed  her  to  be  faded  and  common. 
Of  course  she  had  anticipated  some  notoriety 
and  made  a  resolution  not  to  look  at  the 
papers ;  but  when  the  marked  copy  came 
curiosity  had  triumphed. 

She  tore  it  suddenly  into  strips  and  flung 
it  on  the  hearth.  Its  vulgarizing  influence 
withdrew  after  a  time,  but  left  discourage- 


A  QUESTION  OF  TIME.  173 

•merit  in  its  wake,  and  fears  began  to  assail 
her  once  more.  Mr.  Saltonstall  had  told  her 
that  her  splendid  health  made  her  as  young 
as  his  son.  What  if  that  should  give  way  ? 
What  had  she  left  but  that  ?  The  sympathy 
of  an  invalid  wife  soon  ceases  to  be  appre- 
ciated by  a  husband  full  of  impatient  vi- 
tality. And  suppose  the  sneers  of  the  world 
should  have  their  effect  on  Mark  at  last — 
after  the  enthusiasm  of  his  love  had  begun 
to  temper?  She  had  not  thought  of  this 
before  and  the  idea  filled  her  with  terror. 
The  sensation  caused  by  her  marriage  would 
soon  die,  but  never  the  contemptuous  feeling 
in  regard  to  it?  True,  neither  she  nor 
Mark  cared  for  or  intended  to  be  of  the 
world,  but  they  could  not  live  like  hermits 
and  they  expected  to  travel.  Could  he 
stand  that  ever-recurring  smile  ?  She  had 
no  fear  for  her  own  steadfastness,  but  she 
knew  the  power  of  ridicule  over  men.  She 
put  her  hands  to  her  face  and  burst  into 
tears.  She  was  unanchored  again.  The 
bliss  of  the  past  few  days  plunged  into  the 


174  A  QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

fog-banks  of  memory.  She  wondered  at  her 
content,  the  downfall  of  her  reason,  the  girl- 
like  folly  of  merging  the  future  into  the 
present.  She  remembered  her  doubts  of  the 
night  she  had  realized  her  love.  They  had 
been  swept  aside  by  Mark  Saltonstall's 
dominant  personality  and  her  own  passion, 
but  they  returned  now.  What  right  had 
she,  a  weak,  insignificant  woman,  to  set  at 
defiance  the  laws  laid  down  by  the  world  I 
She  felt  wretched,  forlorn,  conventional. 
What  was  she  but  a  natural  product  of 
these  despised  conventions?  Her  brother's 
letter  and  that  vulgar  paper  had  flung  her 
out  of  her  fool's  paradise  and  made  her  feel 
the  everyday  creature  she  was.  She  was  not 
a  genius  like  Mark.  There  was  nothing  in 
her  to  warrant  the  committing  of  such  an  ex- 
traordinary act.  What  had  blinded  her  to 
her  folly  but  a  passion  which  was  ridiculous 
in  a  woman  of  her  age  ?  It  was  true  that 
Mr.  Saltonstall  championed  her,  but  might 
not  he  be  a  dreamer,  an  illogical  theorizer  ? 
Might  not  she  really  be  ruining  this  young 


A  QUESTION  OF  TIME.  175 

man's  life  as  people  said  ?  preparing  a  hell 
for  his  later  years  ?  Might  not  such  a 
marriage  affect  his  prospects  ?  If  the  world 
was  going  to  laugh  at  him  would  it  consent 
to  take  him  seriously  as  a  man  of  letters  2 
Would  not  every  mention  of  his  name  in 
those  loathsome  newspapers  be  coupled  with 
a  satire  or  a  joke  which  would  rob  him  of  all 
dignity,  forbid  all  respect?  She  dropped 
her  hands  with  a  faint  cry.  This  thought, 
most  appalling  of  all,  had  not  occurred  to 
her  before.  She  sprang  to  her  feet,  hardly 
knowing  where  she  was  bound,  what  her 
purpose.  She  ran  down  the  hall  and  up  the 
old  stair  to  the  tower.  Her  breath  came  in 
little  sobs,  the  hot  tears  blurred  her  sight. 
She  felt  her  way  up  to  the  door  and 
stumbled  into  the  little  room.  The  tears  lay 
like  blisters  on  her  eyes,  but  she  brushed 
them  away  and  looked  about  her.  She  saw 
the  dirt  to-night,  the  dilapidated  chair, 
stooping  like  an  aged  woman,  the  rotting 
casement,  the  broken  pane.  The  moon  was 
high  and  flooded  the  dusty  cobwebbed 


176  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

room.  It  looked  like  the  rickety  skeleton  of 
a  memory's  ghost. 

She  sprang  to  the  window  and  pushed  it 
up.  She  saw  the  populous  town,  the  yachts 
on  the  sound.  Wild  and  waste  had  it  all 
been  twenty-five  years  before !  Age  had 
come  to  it  as  to  her,  but  age  had  brought  it 
strength,  and  peopled  its  churchyards. 

She  tugged  the  neck-band  of  her  gown 
apart,  choking  and  reeling  a  little.  For  the 
moment  her  reason  left  her,  and  she  screamed 
hoarsely  again  and  again.  Every  nerve  in 
her  body  seemed  an  imp,  stabbing  and  sting- 
ing. Every  year  in  her  past  seemed  crowd- 
ing into  the  little  room  with  scorching 
breath  and  derisive  laughter.  They  rent 
themselves  asunder  and  became  months,  then 
weeks,  then  days,  hours !  minutes  !  seconds  ! 
She  gasped  and  struggled  for  breath.  Again 
she  screamed,  and  again 

At  that  moment  Mark  Saltonstall  flung 
open  the  door,  and  caught  her  in  his  arms. 

"  For  God's  sake  what  is  the  matter  ?  "  he 
said.  "  I  heard  you  scream,  and  saw  you 


A   QUESTION  OF   TIME.  ITT 

from  the  road.  I  thought  it  was  your  ghost. 
What — what — is  the  matter  ?  " 

Her  brain  swung  back  to  its  balance,  but 
she  pushed  him  from  her,  fearing  his  touch. 

"  Go,"  she  said,  "  go.  I  will  never  marry 
you.  I  have  seen  the  whole  terrible  truth 
to-night.  I  could  almost  say  that  I  am 
grateful.  So  help  me  God,  I  will  never  see 
you  again.  I  am  strong  at  last.  I  command 
you  to  go  from  me." 

She  had  retreated  to  the  wall,  holding  her 
hands  before  her.  Her  hair  had  escaped  its 
pins,  and  fell  over  her  white  gown.  Her 
face  was  flushed,  her  eyes  blazing. 

"  I  had  expected  this,"  said  Mark. 
"  Come." 

Before  she  could  pass  him,  he  had  lifted 
her  in  his  arms.  He  went  down  the  stairs 
and  out  of  the  house,  and  up  the  hill  to  the 
wood.  When  they  neared  the  clearing,  he 
put  her  on  her  feet. 

"  Twist  up  your  hair,"  he  said. 

She  obeyed  him.  He  led  her  to  the  clear- 
ing. Three  men  awaited  them,  Mr.  Salton- 
12 


178  A    QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

stall,  Redfield  Hopkins,  and  a  clergyman  of 
the  Church  of  England. 

Far  down  in  the  valley  the  gong  of  the 
great  town  clock  smote  the  air  four  times. 


A  GLANCE  AT  THE   QUESTION. 

ONE  of  the  first  sentiments  born  to  a 
woman  reciprocally  loved  by  a  man  younger 
than  herself  is  gratitude.  A  young  woman 
accepts  love  carelessly,  as  her  birthright ; 
the  violets  blooming  in  the  hedge,  the  petal- 
ous  beauty  of  roses  damasking  spring,  expect 
to  be  plucked ;  for  that  they  were  made ; 
but  the  autumn  leaves  fall  softly,  lie  un- 
touched until  the  rain  comes  to  wash  them 
down  into  the  earth,  enriching  it.  The  full- 
blown rose  is  very  beautiful,  but  the  vigor  of 
youth  has  spent  itself  in  the  expanding 
leaves;  the  scent  of  death  is  in  the  heavy 
perfume.  Even  though  a  woman  may  have 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  179 

filed  a  record  of  continuous  conquest,  the  love 
of  a  man  inferior  in  years  touches  her  first 
with  surprise,  then  doubt,  then  profoundest 
gratitude.  Of  course  the  sentiment  wears 
away  with  possession,  all  sentiments  do,  but 
in  its  fleeting  existence  does  her  most  abiding 
danger  inhere.  Man  as  a  lover  cannot  sur- 

o 

vive  gratitude.  Pride  puffeth  him  ;  he  floats 
upward  and  reclines  upon  rarefied  heights, 
gazes  abstractedly,  indulgently,  upon  the 
woman  below — and  eventually  his  gaze  doth 
wander.  It  smites  his  self-respect  to  adore 
that  which  admits  itself  unworthy.  And  a 
woman  in  gratitude  further  endangers  her 
peace  of  heart  because  coquetry,  feminine 
caprice,  and  power,  go  with  that  loss  of  self- 
confidence  which  follows  the  upward  gaze, 
enwrapt  and  fixt.  She  begs  for  small  favors 
instead  of  refusing  greater,  she  scatters  tears 
upon  a  man's  indifferent  moods;  she  loses 
her  head  instead  of  skilling  herself  in  the 
game  of  chess.  As  a  man  to  be  beloved  of 
women  should  be  virile  and  in  all  things 
protective  and  reliant,  so  should  he  ever  be 


180  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

the  one  to  sue.  Deep  in  him  abides  the  in- 
stinct and  the  desire.  Let  a  woman  usurp 
his  prerogative  and  he  rises  from  his  knees 
nor  cares  to  kneel  again.  Every  woman  in 
love  should  have  still  another  man  in  love 
with  her.  It  feeds  the  hesitant  flame  of  her 
vanity,  prevents  her  knees  from  giving  way. 
If  the  understudy  is  not  to  be  had,  let  her 
etch  one  in  her  brain.  It  answers  almost  as 
well;  if  life  does  not  yield  us  all  we  long 
for,  sometimes  imagination  gives  us  the 
bright  resemblance  of  it. 

Conversely,  the  woman  who  loves  without 
a  modicum  of  gratitude  neither  feels  nor  con- 
veys such  lasting  and  quietly  satisfying 
happiness,  as  does  the  woman  upon  whom 
the  sadness  of  years  has  fallen  or  who  has 
not  been  given  the  large  gift  of  sexual  fas- 
cination. Let  the  woman  in  gratitude  keep 
her  head,  and  she  flowers  to  a  high  degree  of 
womanliness  unattainable  to  one  sated  with 
easy  conquest.  She  sees  and  draws  the 
noblest  in  the  man  she  has  mated,  she  looks 
to  herself  sharpl}r  lest  she  deflower,  be  less 


A   QUESTION  OF  TIME.  181 

desirable  to  the  man  who  has  choseii  her  in 
spite  of  time  or  unadornment.  The  fasci- 
nating woman  has  somewhat  of  contempt 
for  passion,  and  not  valuing  love,  does  not 
respect  it,  hence  is  more  apt  to  see  and  draw 
a  man's  worst  than  his  best.  She  is  more 
bored  by  constancy  than  appreciative  of  it. 
Love  with  her  is  either  a  caprice  or  an  un- 
conscious selection  of  the  man  who  can  give 
her  greatest  pleasure. 

I  am  prepared  to  hear  the  readers  of  this 
book  call  Boradil  Trevor  a  fool,  and  let  her 
go  to  her  fate  without  sympathy.  But  here 
and  there  a  philosopher  may  commend  her 
wisdom.  The  heart  is  stabbed  often  along 
the  path  of  life ;  the  brain  is  pierced  by 
many  doubts,  allured  by  many  ambitions, 
stunned  by  many  disappointments ;  the  pas- 
sions are  troubled,  stung,  quicked,  finished 
when  only  ashes  remain  to  burn.  Then 
Death,  standing  at  the  end  of  the  path,  or 
hovering  obeisantly  at  our  side,  lifts  the  cur- 
tain and  all  is  over  as  we  wonder  why  it  was 
and  cross  ourselves  regretfully  or  triumph- 


1S2  A   QUESTION  OF  TIME. 

antly  to  the  religion  of  pleasure.  Whether 
we  cast  our  eyes  on  earth  or  on  heaven,  suf- 
fering is  the  common  lot;  but  earth  has  its 
pleasures,  brief  though  they  may  be— let  us 
take  them.  Nirvana  at  the  end,  grants  the 
one  desire  left  in  us.  Let  us  eat,  drink,  and 
be  merry,  for  to-morrow  we  die. 


MRS.  PENDLETON'S 


FOUR-IN-HAND 


MRS.  PENDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-HAND. 


JESSICA,  her  hands  clinched  and  teeth  set, 
stood  looking  with  hard  eyes  at  a  small 
heap  of  letters  lying  on  the  floor.  The  sun, 
blazing  through  the  open  window,  made  her 
blink  unconsciously,  and  the  ocean's  deep 
voice  rising  to  the  Newport  sands  seemed  to 
reiterate  : 

"  Contempt !     Contempt !  " 

Tall,  slight,  with  the  indescribable  air  and 
style  of  the  New  York  woman,  she  did  not 
suggest  intimate  knowledge  of  the  word  the 
ocean  hurled  to  her.  In  that  moss-green 
room,  with  her  haughty  face  and  white  pure 
skin,  her  severe  faultless  gown  following 
classic  outlines,  she  rather  suggested  the 
type  to  whom  poets  a  century  hence  would 


186      MBS.  PENDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-HAND. 

indite  their  sonnets — when  she  and  her  kind 
had  been  set  in  the  frame  of  the  past.  And 
if  her  dress  was  conventional  she  had  let  im- 
agination play  with  her  hair.  The  clear  eva- 
sive color  of  flame,  it  was  brushed  down  to 
her  neck  and  parted,  crossed  and  brought 
tightly  up  each  side  of  her  head,  just  behind 
her  ears.  Meeting  above  her  bang,  the  curl- 
ing ends  allowed  to  fly  loose,  it  vaguely  re- 
sembled Medusa's  wreath.  Her  eyes  were 
gray,  the  color  of  mid-ocean,  calm,  beneath 
a  gray  sky.  Not  twenty -four,  she  had  the 
repose  of  one  whose  cradle  had  been  rocked 
by  Society's  foot,  and  although  at  this  mo- 
ment her  pride  was  in  the  dust,  there  was 
more  anger  than  shame  in  her  face. 

The  door  opened  and  her  hostess  entered. 
As  Mrs.  Pendleton  turned  slowly  and  looked 
at  her,  Miss  Decker  gave  a  little  cry. 

"  Jessica  !  "  she  said,  "  what  is  the  mat- 
ter ?  " 

"  I  have  been  insulted,"  said  Mrs.  Pendle- 
ton, deliberately.  She  felt  a  savage  pleas- 
ure in  further  humiliating  herself. 


MRS.  PEXDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-IIAND.      187 

"  Insulted  !  You  !  "  Miss  Decker's  correct 
voice  and  calm  brown  eyes  could  not  have 
expressed  more  surprise  and  horror  if  a  for- 
eign diplomatist  had  snapped  his  fingers  in 
the  face  of  the  President's  wife.  Even  her 
sleek  brown  hair  almost  quivered. 

"Yes,"  Mrs.  Pendleton  went  on  in  the 
same  measured  tones,  "  four  men  have  told 
me  how  much  they  despise  me."  She 
walked  slowly  up  and  down  the  room. 
Miss  Decker  sank  upon  the  divan,  incredulity, 
curiosity,  expectation,  feminine  satisfaction 
marching  across  her  face  in  rapid  procession. 

"  I  have  always  maintained  that  a  married 
woman  has  a  perfect  right  to  flirt,"  contin- 
ued Mrs.  Pendleton.  "  The  more  especially 
if  she  has  married  an  old  man  and  life  is 
somewhat  of  a  bore  in  consequence.  '  Why 
do  you  marry  an  old  man?*  snaps  the  vir- 
tuous world.  'What  a  contemptible  creat- 
ure you  are  to  marry  for  anything  but  love,' 
it  cries,  as  it  eats  the  dust  at  Mammon's  feet. 
I  married  an  old  man  because,  with  the  wis- 
dom of  twenty,  I  had  made  up  my  mind  that 


1S8      MRS.  PENDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-HAND. 

I  could  never  love  and  that  position  and 
wealth  alone  made  up  the  sum  of  existence. 
I  had  more  excuse  than  a  girl  who  has  been 
always  poor,  for  I  had  never  known  the 
arithmetic  of  money  until  my  father  failed, 
a  year  before  I  married.  People  who  have 
never  known  wealth  do  not  realize  the  pure- 
ly physical  suffering  of  those  inured  to  lux- 
ury and  suddenly  bereft  of  it,  it  makes  no 
difference  what  one's  will  or  strength  of 
character  is.  So — I  married  Mr.  Pendleton. 
So — I  amused  myself  with  other  men,  Mr. 
Pendleton  gave  me  my  head,  because  I  kept 
clear  of  scandal ;  he  knew  my  pride.  Now, 
if  I  had  spent  my  life  demoralizing  myself 
and  the  society  that  received  me,  I  could  not 
be  more  bitterly  punished.  I  suppose  I  de- 
serve it.  I  suppose  that  the  married  flirt  is 
just  as  poor  and  paltry  and  contemptible  a 
creature  as  the  moralist  and  the  minister  de- 
pict her.  We  measure  morals  by  results. 
Therefore  I  hold  to-day  that  it  is  the  busi- 
ness of  a  lifetime  to  throw  stones  at  the  mar- 
ried flirt." 


MRS.   PENDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-HAND.       189 

For  Heaven's  sake,"  cried  Miss  Decker,  in 
a  tone  of  exasperation,  "  stop  moralizing  and 
tell  me  what  lias  happened  !  " 

"Do  you  remember  Clarence  Trent,  Ed- 
ward Dedham,  John  Severance,  Norton  Bos- 
well  ?  " 

"  Do  I  ?     Poor  moths  !  " 

"  They  were  apparently  devoted  to  me." 

Dryly:  "Apparently." 

"  How  long  is  it  since  Mr.  Pendleton's 
death  ?  " 

"  About — he  died  on  the  sixteenth — why, 
yes,  it  was  six  months  yesterday  since  he 
died." 

"  Exactly.  You  see  these  four  notes  on 
the  floor?  They  are  four  proposals — four 
proposals" — and  she  gave  a  short  hard 
laugh  through  lips  whose  red  had  sudden- 
ly faded — "from  the  four  men  I  have  just 
mentioned." 

Miss  Decker  gasped.  "  Four  proposals  ! 
Then  what  on  earth  are  you  angry  about  ?  " 

Mrs.  Pendleton's  lip  curled  scornfully. 
She  did  not  condescend  to  answer  at  once. 


100      MRS.   PENDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-HAND. 

"You  are  clever  enough  at  times,"  she  said, 
coldly,  after  a  moment.  "It  is  odd  you  can- 
not grasp  the  very  palpable  fact  that  four 
proposals  received  on  the  same  day,  by  the 
same  mail,  from  four  men  who  are  each  oth- 
er's most  intimate  friends,  can  mean  but  one 
thing — a  practical  joke.  Oh  ! "  she  cried, 
the  jealously  mastered  passion  springing  into 
her  voice,  "  that  is  what  infuriates  me — more 
even  than  the  insult — that  they  should  think 
rne  such  a  fool  as  to  be  so  easily  deceived. 
Oh!" 

"  If  I  remember  aright,'7  ventured  Miss 
Decker,  feebly,  "  the  intimacy  to  which  you 
allude  was  a  thing  of  the  past  some  time  be- 
fore you  disappeared  from  the  world.  In 
fact,  they  were  not  on  speaking  terms." 

"  Oh,  they  have  made  it  up  long  ago  ! 
Don't  make  any  weak  explanations,  but  tell 
me  how  to  turn  the  tables  on  them.  I  would 
give  my  hair  and  wear  a  gray  wig,  my  com- 
plexion and  paint  to  get  even  with  them. 
And  I  will.  But  how  ?  How  ?  " 

The    stateliness   left    her    walk  and   she 


MRS.   PENDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-HAND.       191 

paced  up  and  down  the  room  with  nervous 
steps,  glancing  for  inspiration  from  the  deli- 
cate etchings  on  the  walls  to  the  divan  that 
was  like  a  moss-bank,  to  the  carpet  that 
might  have  been  a  patch  of  forest  green,  and 
from  thence  to  the  sparkling  ocean.  Miss 
Decker  offered  no  suggestions.  She  had 
perfect  faith  in  the  genius  of  her  friend. 

Suddenly  Mrs.  Pendleton  paused  and 
turned  to  her  hostess.  The  red  had  come 
back  to  her  thin  curled  sensuous  mouth. 
Her  eyes  were  luminous,  as  when  the  sun 
breaks  through  the  gray  sky  and  falls,  daz- 
zling, on  the  waters. 

"  I  have  it ! "  she  said.  "  And  a  week 
from  to-day — I  will  keep  them  in  suspense 
that  long — New  York  will  have  no  corner 
small  enough  to  hold  them.'' 


II. 


THE  hot  September  day  was  ten  hours  old. 
The  office  of  the  St.  Christopher  Club  was 
still  deserted  but  for  a  clerk  who  ]ooked 
warm  and  sleepy.  The  postman  had  just 
left  a  heap  of  letters  on  his  desk  and  he  was 
sorting  them  for  their  various  pigeon-holes. 
A  young  man  entered  and  the  clerk  began 
to  turn  over  the  letters  more  rapidly.  The 
newcomer,  tall,  thin,  with  sharp  features 
and  shrewd  American  face,  had  an  extremely 
nervous  manner.  As  he  passed  through  the 
vestibule  a  clerk  at  a  table  put  a  mark  oppo- 
site the  name  "  Mr,  Clarence  Trent,"  to  indi- 
cate that  he  was  in  the  club. 

"  Any  letters  ? "  he  demanded  of  the  office 
clerk. 

The  man  handed  him  two  and  he  darted 
into  the  morning  room  and  tore  one  open, 


MRS.  PENDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-HAND.       193 

letting  the  other  fall  to  the  floor.     He  read 
as  follows : 

"  MY  DEAR  FRIEND  :  I  have  but  this  mo- 
ment received  your  letter,  which  seems  to 
have  been  delayed.  ["  Of  course !  Why 
did  I  not  think  of  that?"]  I  say  nothing 
here  of  the  happiness  which  its  contents 
have  given  me.  Come  at  once. 

"  JESSICA  PENDLETON. 

"  Our  engagement  must  be  a  profound  se- 
cret until  the  year  of  my  mourning  is  over." 

Trent's  drab  and  scanty  whiskers  seemed 
to  curl  into  hard  knots  over  the  nervous  fa- 
cial contortion  in  which  he  indulged.  Nat- 
ure being  out  of  material  when  at  work 
upon  him  had  apparently  constructed  his 
muscles  from  stout  twine.  An  inch  of  it 
joining  his  nose  to  the  upper  lip,  the  former's 
pointed  tip  was  wont  to  punctuate  his  con- 
versation and  emotions  with  the  direct 
downward  movement  of  a  machine  needle 
puncturing  cloth.  He  crumpled  the  letter 
in  his  bony  nervous  fingers,  and  his  pale, 

13 


194      MRS.  PENDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-HAND. 

sharp  gray  eyes  opened  and  shut  with  sud- 
den rapidity. 

"I  knew  I  could  not  be  mistaken,'7  he 
thought,  triumphantly.  u  She  is  mine  !  " 

In  the  vestibule  another  name  was  check- 
ed off — u  Mr.  Norton  Boswell,"  and  its  own- 
er made  eagerly  for  the  desk.  His  dark 
intellectual  face  was  flushed  and  his  sensi- 
tive mouth  twitched  suddenly  as  the  clerk 
handed  him  a  roll  of  MSS. 

"  Never  mind  that,"  he  said,  hastily.  "  Give 
me  my  letters." 

The  clerk  handed  him  several,  and  wThisk- 
ing  them  from  left  to  right  through  his 
impatient  hands  he  thrust  all  but  one  into 
his  pocket  and  walked  rapidly  to  the  morn- 
ing room.  Seating  himself  before  a  table  he 
looked  at  the  envelope  as  if  not  daring  to 
solve  its  mystery,  then  hastily  tore  it  apart. 

"Mr  DEAR  FRIEND,"  it  began,  and  Bos- 
well,  despite  his  ardor,  threw  a  glance  down 
a  certain  corridor  in  his  memory  and  thought, 
with  kindling  eyes  :  "  Oh  !  with  what  divine 


MRS.  PENDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-HAND.       195 

sweetness  did  she  use  to  utter  that  word 
'  friend.' '  Then  he  fixed  his  eyes  greedily 
on  the  page  once  more.  "  I  have  but  this 
moment  received  your  letter,  which  seems  to 
have  been  delayed.  ["  Ah  !  "  rapturously, 
the  paper  dancing  before  his  eyes,  "  that 
accounts  for  it.  I  knew  she  was  the  most 
tender-hearted  woman  on  earth."]  I  say 
nothing  here  of  the  happiness  which  its  con- 
tents have  given  me.  Come  at  once. 

"  JESSICA  PENDLETON. 
"Our  engagement  must  be  a  profound  se- 
cret, until  the  year  of  my  mourning  is  over." 

Boswell  plunged  a  pen  into  the  ink-well 
with  quivering  nostrils,  and  in  that  quiet 
room  two  hearts  thumped  so  loudly  that 
only  passion  and  scratching  pens  averted 
mutual  and  withering  contempt. 

As  Boswell  left  the  office  a  very  young- 
man  entered  it.  He  possessed  that  nonde- 
script blond  complexion  which  seems  to  be  the 
uniform  of  the  New  York  youth  of  fashion. 
It  is  said  that  Englishmen  are  the  cleanest 


196      MRS.  PtfNDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-IIAND. 

looking  men  on  this  planet  Earth,  whether 
scaling  the  Matterhorn  or  taking  a  duchess 
in  to  dinner ;  but  the  ciphers  of  the  Four 
Hundred  have  achieved  the  well-scrubbed 
appearance  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  more  success- 
fully than  his  accent.  Mr.  Dedham  might 
have  been  put  through  a  clothes  wringer. 
Even  his  minute  and  recent  mustache  looked 
as  if  each  hair  had  its  particular  nurse,  and 
his  pink  and  chubby  face  defied  conscientious 
dissipation.  He  sauntered  up  to  the  clerk's 
desk  with  an  elaborate  affectation  of  indif- 
ference, and  drawled  a  demand  for  his  mail. 

The  clerk  handed  him  a  dainty  note  sealed 
with  a  crest.  He  accepted  it  with  an  absent 
air,  although  a  look  of  genuine  boyish  delight 
thrust  its  way  through  the  fishy  inertness  of 
his  average  expression. 

It  took  him  just  a  minute  and  a  half  to 
get  into  the  morning  room  and  read  these 
fateful  lines : 

a  MY  DEAK  FRIEND  :  ["  Enchanting  phrase  ! 
I  can  hear  her  say  it."]  I  have  but  this  mo- 


MRS.  PENDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-HAND.       197 

ment  received  your  letter,  which  seems  to 
have  been  delayed.  ["  Ah  !  this  perfume  ! 
this  perfume  !  "]  I  say  nothing  here  of  the 
happiness  which  its  contents  have  given  me. 
Come  at  once.  "  JESSICA  PENDLETON. 

"  Our  engagement  must  be  a  profound  se- 
cret until  the  year  of  rny  mourning  is  over." 

A  rosy  tide  wandered  to  the  roots  of  Mr. 
Dedhain's  cendre  locks  and  he  made  a  wild, 
uncertain  dab  at  his  upper  lip.  Again  there 
was  no  sound  in  the  morning  room  of  the  St. 
Christopher  Club  but  the  furious  dashing  of 
pens,  the  rending  of  parchment  paper,  or  the 
sudden  scraping  of  a  nervous  foot. 

A  tall  broad-shouldered  young  man,  with 
much  repose  of  face  and  manner,  entered  the 
office  from  the  avenue,  glanced  at  the  pigeon- 
holes above  the  clerk's  desk,  then  sauntered 
deliberately  into  the  morning  room  and 
looked  out  of  the  window.  A  slight  rigidity 
of  the  nostrils  alone  betokened  the  impa- 
tience within,  and  his  uneasy  thoughts  ran 
somewhat  as  follows : 


198      MRS.  PENDLE  TON'S  FOUR-IN-HAND. 

"  What  a  fool  I  have  been  !  After  all  my 
experience  with  women  to  make  such  an  ass 
of  myself  over  the  veriest  coquette  that  ever 
breathed;  but  her  preference  for  me  last 
winter  was  so  pointed — oh,  damnation  !  " 

He  stood  gnawing  his  under  lip  at  the 
lumbering  'bus,  but  turned  suddenly  as  a 
man  approached  from  behind  and  presented 
several  letters  on  a  tray.  The  first  and  only 
one  he  opened  ran  thus  : 

"  MY  DEAR  FRIEND  :  I  have  but  this  mo- 
ment received  your  letter,  which  seems  to 
have  been  delayed.  I  say  nothing  here  of 
the  happiness  which  its  contents  have  given 
me.  Come  at  once. 

"  JESSICA  PENDLETON. 

"  Our  engagement  must  be  a  profound  se- 
cret until  the  year  of  my  mourning  is  over.'' 

Severance  folded  the  note,  his  face  paling 
a  little. 

"  Well,  well,  she  is  true  after  all.  What 
a  brute  I  was  to  misjudge  her."  He  strolled 
back  to  the  office.  "I  will  go  home  and 


MRS.  PENDLETON'S  FOU11-1N-IIAND.       199 

write  to  her,  and  to-morrow  I  shall  see  her  ! 
Great  heaven !  were  six  months  ever  so  long 
before  ?  " 

As  he  turned  from  the  coat-room  Boswell 
entered  the  office  by  the  opposite  door. 

"  The  fellow  looks  as  gay  as  a  lark,"  he 
thought.  "  He  hasn't  looked  like  that  for 
six  months.  I  believe  I'll  make  it  up  with 
him — particularly  as  I've  come  out  ahead  !  " 

"  Give  me  that  package,''  demanded  Bos- 
well  dreamily  of  the  clerk.  Then  he  caught 
sight  of  Severance.  "  Why,  Jack,  old  fel- 
low !  "  he  cried,  "  how  are  you  ?  Haven't 
seen  you  looking  so  well  for  an  age.  Don't 
go  out.  It's  too  hot." 

"  Oh,  hang  it !  I've  got  to.  I'm  off  for 
Newport  to  morrow.  It's  so  infernally  dull 
in  town." 

"  Going  to  Newport  to-morrow !  So  am 
I.  My  aunt  is  quite  ill  and  has  sent  for  me. 
I'm  her  heir,  you  know." 

"  No  ?  Didn't  know  you  had  an  aunt.  I 
congratulate  you.  Hope  she'll  go  off,  I'm 


sure." 


200      MBS.  PENDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-HAND. 

"  Hope  so.  Here  comes  Teddy  ;  he  looks 
like  an  elongated  rubber  ball.  It's  some 
time  since  I've  seen  him  so  buoyant.  How 
are  you,  Teddy  ?  " 

"  How  are  you,  Norton,  old  boy  ?  "  ex- 
claimed Dedham,  rapturously.  "  How  glad 
I  am  to  hear  the  old  name  once  more. 
You've  given  me  the  cold  shoulder  of 
late." 

"  Oh,  well,  my  boy,  you  know  men  will  be 
fools  occasionally.  But  give  bygones  the  go- 
by. I'm  going  to  Newport  to-morrow.  Can 
I  take  any  messages  to  your  numerous " 

"  Dear  boy  !  I'm  going  to  Newport  to- 
morrow. Sea  bathing  ordered  by  iny  phy- 


sician." 


"  By  Jove,  I  am  in  luck.  Severance  is 
going  over  too.  We'll  have  a  jolly  time  of 
it." 

"  I  should  say  so !  "  murmured  Teddy. 
"  Heaven  !  Hello.  Sev,  how  are  you  ?  Didn't 
see  you.  For  the  matter  of  that  you've  been 
trying  to  make  me  forget  the  shape  of  that 
stern  profile  of  yours  of  late.  But  as  long 


MRS.  PENDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-HAND.       201 

as  we  are  all  going  the  same  way  we  might 
as  well  bury  our  hatchet.  What  do  you  say, 
dear  boy  \  " 

"  Only  too  happy,"  said  Severance,  heartily. 
"  And  may  we  never  unearth  it  again.  Here 
comes  Trent.  He  looks  as  if  he  had  just 
been  returned  for  the  senate." 

"  How  are  you  ? ''  demanded  Trent,  per- 
emptorily. "  You  have  made  it  up  ?  Don't 
leave  me  out  in  the  cold." 

Dedham  made  a  final  lunge  for  his  desert- 
ing dignity,  then  sent  it  on  its  way.  "  I 
should  think  not,"  he  cried  with  dancing 
eyes.  "  Give  me  your  fist." 

In  a  moment  they  were  all  shaking  each 
other's  hands  off,  and  good-fellowship  was 
streaming  from  every  eye. 

"  Come  over  to  my  rooms,  all  of  you," 
gurgled  Teddy,  "  and  have  a  drink." 

"  With  pleasure,  my  boy,"  said  Trent. 
"  But  native  rudeness  will  compel  me  to 
drink  und  run.  I  am  off  for  Newport " 

"  Newport !  "  cried  three  voices. 

"  Yes  ;    anything    strange  in  that  ?      I'm 


202      MRS.  PENDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-HAND. 

going  on  vital  business  connected  with  the 
coming  election." 

"  This  is  a  coincidence,'7  exclaimed  Bos- 
well,  with  the  appreciation  of  the  romanti- 
cist. "  Why,  we  are  all  going  to  Newport. 
Dedham  in  search  of  health,  Severance  of 
pleasure,  and  I  of  a  fortune — only  the  old 
mummy  is  always  making  out  her  checks, 
but  never  passes  them  in.  Well,  I  hope  we'll 
see  a  lot  of  each  other  when  we  get  there." 

"  Oh,  of  course,"  said  Severance,  hastily. 
"  We  will  have  many  another  game  of  polo 
together." 

"  Well,"  said  Dedham,  "  come  over  to 
my  rooms  now,  and  drink  to  the  success  of 
our  separate  quests." 


III. 

Miss  DECKER  paced  restlessly  up  and  down 
the  sea-room  waiting  for  the  mail.  Mrs. 
Pendleton,  more  composed  but  equally  nerv- 
ous, lay  in  a  long  chair  with  expectation  in 
her  eyes  and  triumph  on  her  lips. 

"  Will  they  answer  or  will  they  not  ?  "  ex- 
claimed Miss  Decker.  "  If  the  mail  would 
only  come  !  Will  Jhey  be  crushed  ? — furi- 
ous ? — or — will  they  apologize  ?  " 

"  I  care  nothing  what  they  do,"  said  Mrs. 
Pendleton,  languidly.  "  All  I  wanted  was 
to  see  them  when  they  received  my  notes, 
and  later,  when  they  met  to  compare  them. 
I  hold  that  my  revenge  is  worthy  of  a  page 
in  Machiavelli's  Prince.  To  turn  the  joke 
on  them  and  to  let  them  see  that  they  could 
not  make  a  fool  of  me  at  the  same  time  ! 
Oh  !  how  dared  they  ?  " 

"Well,  they'll  never   perpetrate    another 


20 ±      MRS.  PENDLETON'S  FOUR-IN  HAND. 

practical  joke,  my  dear.  You  have  your  re- 
venge, Jessica  ;  you  have  blunted  their  sense 
of  humor  for  life.  I  doubt  if  they  ever  even 
read  the  funny  page  of  a  newspaper  again. 
Here  comes  the  postman.  There  !  the  bell 
has  rung.  Why  doesn't  Bell  go  ?  I'll  go 
myself  in  a  minute." 

Mrs.  Pendleton's  nostrils  dilated  a  little, 
but  she  did  not  turn  her  head  even  when  the 
man-servant  entered  and  held  a  silver  tray 
before  her. 

Four  letters  lay  thereon.  She  placed  them 
on  her  lap,  but  did  not  speak  until  the  man 
had  left  the  room.  Then  she  looked  at  Miss 
Decker  and  gave  the  letters  a  little  sweep 
with  the  tips  of  her  fingers. 

u  They  have  answered,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  Jessica,  for  Heaven's  sake  don't  be 
so  iron-bound  !  "  cried  her  friend.  "  Read 
them." 

"You  can  read  them  if  you  choose.  I 
have  no  interest  beyond  knowing  that  they 
received  mine." 

Miss  Decker  needed  no  second  invitation. 


MRS.  PENDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-HAND.       205 

She  caught  the  letters  from  Mrs.  Pendletou's 
lap  and  tore  one  of  them  open.  She  read  a 
few  lines,  then  dropped  limply  on  a  chair. 

"  Jessica  !  "  she  whispered,  with  a  little 
agonized  gasp,  "  listen  to  this." 

Mrs.  Pendleton  turned  her  eyes  inquir- 
ingly, but  would  not  stoop  to  curiosity. 
"  Well,"  she  said,  "  I  am  listening." 

"  It  is  from  Mr.  Trent.  And — listen : 
i  Angel !  I  think  if  you  had  kept  me  wait- 
ing one  day  longer  you  would  have  met  a 
lunatic  wandering  on  the  Newport  clifEs. 
Last  night  I  attended  a  primary  and  made 
such  an  egregious  idiot  of  myself  (although 
I  was  complimented  later  upon  my  speech) 
that  I  shall  never  understand  why  I  was  not 
hissed.  But  hereafter  I  shall  be  inspired. 
And  how  you  will  shine  in  Washington  ! 
That  is  the  place  for  our  talents,  not  mer- 
cantile New  York.  After  reading  your  re- 
served yet  impassioned  note,  I  do  not  feel 
that  I  can  talk  more  rationally  upon  politics 
than  while  in  suspense.  What  do  you  think 
I  did?  I  made  it  all  up  with  Severance, 


206      MRS.  PENDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-HAND. 

Dedham,  and  Bos  well,  whom  I  met  just  after 
receiving  it.  I  could  afford  to  forgive  them ! 
They,  by  the  way,  go  to  Newport  to-morrow. 
Farewell,  most  brilliant  of  women,  destined 
by  Heaven  to  be  the  wife  of  a  diplomatist 
(for  I  will  confide  to  you  that  that  is  rny  ul 
timate  ambition).  Until  to-morrow, 

" i  CLARENCE  TRENT.' 

"  Well !     What  do  you  think  of  that  ?  " 

A  pink  wave  had  risen  to  Mrs.  Pendleton's 
hair,  then  receded  and  broken  upon  the 
haughty  curve  of  her  mouth. 

"  Read  the  others,"  she  said,  briefly. 

"  Oh  !  how  can  you  be  so  cool  ?  "  and  Miss 
Decker  opened  another  note  with  trembling 
fingers. 

"  It  is  from  Norton  Boswell.  i  You  once 
chided  me  for  looking  at  the  world  through 
gray  spectacles,  and  bade  me  always  hope 
for  the  best  until  the  worst  was  decided. 
When  you  were  near  to  encourage  me  the 
sky  was  often  pink,  but  even  the  memory  of 
the  last  six  months  has  faded  before  the  ago- 
nized suspense  of  the  last  seven  days.  Oh  ! 


MRS.  PENDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-HAND.      207 

I  shall  be  an  author  now,  if  suffering  is  the 
final  lesson.  But  what  incoherent  stuff  I  am 
writing.  Loneliness  and  despair  are  alike 
forgotten.  I  can  write  no  more  !  To-mor- 
row !  To-morrow  ! 

" '  BOSWELL.'  " 

"  Read  Severance's,"  said  Jessica,  quickly. 

"I  believe  you  like  that  man,"  exclaimed 
Miss  Decker.  "  I  think  he's  a  brute.  But 
you're  in  a  scrape  !  This  is  from  the  lordly 
Severance : 

" i  An  Englishman  once  said  of  you  with 
a  drawl  which  wound  the  words  about  my 
memory — "  Y-a-a-s ;  she  flirts  on  ice,  so  to 
speak."  Coldest  and  most  subtle  of  women, 
why  did  you  keep  me  in  suspense  for  seven 
long  days  ?  Do  you  think  I  believe  that  fic- 
tion of  the  delayed  letter  ?  You  forget  that 
we  have  met  before.  But  why  torment  me  ? 
Did  I  not  in  common  decency  have  to  wait 
six  months  before  I  dared  put  my  fate  to  the 
test  ?  How  I  counted  those  days.  I  had  a 
calendar  and  a  pencil — in  short  I  made  a 


208      MfiS.  PENDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-HAND. 

fool  of  myself.  Now  the  chessboard  is  be- 
tween us  once  more ;  we  start  on  even 
ground  ;  we  will  play  a  keen  and  close  game 
to  the  end  of  our  natural  lives.  I  love  you  ; 
but  I  know  you.  I  will  kiss  the  rod — until 
we  marry ;  after  that — we  shall  play  chess. 
I  shall  see  you  to-morrow. 

"<s; 

"Well,  that's  what  I  call  a  beast  of  a 
man,"  said  Miss  Decker. 

"  I  hate  him,"  said  Jessica,  between  her 
teeth. 

She  looked  hard  at  the  ocean.  Under  its 
gray  sky  to-day  it  was  the  color  of  her  eyes, 
as  cold  and  as  unfathomable.  The  glitter- 
ing  Medusa-like  ends  of  her  hair  seemed  to 
flame  upward  and  writhe  at  each  other. 

"  I  should  think  you  would  hate  him," 
said  Miss  Decker,  "  he  is  the  only  living  man 
who  ever  got  the  best  of  you.  But  listen  to 
what  your  devoted  infant  has  to  say.  Nice 
little  boy,  Teddy. 

"  '  Dearest !  Sweetest !  Do  you  know  that  I 
am  almost  dancing  for  joy  at  this  moment  ? 


MRS.  PENDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-HAND.      209 

Indeed,  my  feet  are  going  faster  than  my 
pen.  To  think!  To  think! — you  really  do 
love  me  after  all.  But  I  always  said  you 
were  not  a  flirt.  I  knocked  a  man  down 
once  and  challenged  him  to  a  duel  because 
he  said  you  were.  He  wouldn't  fight,  but  I 
had  the  satisfaction  of  letting  him  know 
what  I  thought  of  him.  And  now  I  can 
prove  it  to  all  the  world !  But  I  can't  write 
any  more.  There  are  three  blots  on  this 
now,  the  pen  is  jumping  so,  and  you  know  I 
never  was  much  at  writing  letters.  But  I 
can  talk,  and  to-morrow  I  will  tell  you  all. 
"'YouR  OWN  TEDDY. 
"'P.S. — Is  it  not  queer — quite  a  coinci- 
dence— Severance,  Trent,  and  Bos  well  are  go- 
ing to  Newport  to-morrow  too.  How  proud 
I  shall  be — but  no,  I  take  that  back ;  I  only 
pity  them,  poor  devils,  from  the  bottom  of 
my  heart ;  or  I  would  if  it  wasn't  filled  up 
with  you.  "  '  T.' 

"  Well,  madam — coquette,  diplomatist,  in- 
spiration and  queen  of  veracity,  you're  in  a 

14 


210      MRS,  PENDLETON'3  FOUR-IN-HAND. 

scrape  and  I  don't  envy  you.  "What  will 
you  do  ? " 

Mrs.  Pendleton  pressed  her  head  against 
the  back  of  the  chair,  straining  her  chin  up- 
ward as  if  she  wanted  the  salt  breeze  to  rasp 
her  throat. 

"  I  have  been  so  bored  for  six  months," 
she  said,  slowly.  "  Let  them  come.  I  will 
see  each  of  them  alone,  and  keep  the  farce 
going  for  a  week  or  so.  It  will  be  amusing 
— to  be  engaged  to  four  men  at  once.  You 
will  command  the  forces  and  see  that  they 
do  not  meet.  Of  course  it  cannot  be  kept 
up  very  long,  and  when  all  resources  are  fail- 
ing I  will  let  them  meet  and  make  them 
madly  jealous.  It  will  do  one  of  them  good, 
at  least." 

"Well,  you  have  courage,"  ejaculated 
Miss  Decker.  "  You  can't  do  it.  But  yes, 
you  can.  If  the  woman  lives  who  can  play 
jackstraws  with  firebrands,  that  woman  is 
you.  And  what  fun  !  We  are  so  dull  here 
— both  in  mourning.  I'll  help  you.  I'll 
carry  out  your  instructions  like  a  major." 


MRS.  PENDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-HAND.       211 

Mrs.  Pendleton  rose  and  walked  up  and 
down  the  room  once  or  twice.  "There  is 
only  one  thing,"  she  said,  drawing  her 
straight  black  brows  together,  "  if  I  am  en- 
gaged to  them  they  will  want  to — hm — kiss 
me,  you  know.  It  will  be  rather  awkward. 
I  never  was  engaged  to  anyone  but  Mr.  Pen- 
dleton, and  he  used  to  kiss  me  on  my  fore- 
head and  say  '  my  dear  child.'  I  am  afraid 
they  won't  be  contented  with  that." 

"  I  am  afraid  they  won't !  But  you  have 
tact  enough  to  manage  a  regiment.  Come, 
say  you  will  do  it." 

"  Yes,"  said  Jessica,  "  I  will  do  it.  In  my 
boarding-school  days  I  used  to  dream  of 
being  a  tragedy  queen ;  I  find  myself  thrust 
by  circumstances  into  comedy.  But  I  have 
no  doubt  it  will  suit  my  talents  better." 


IV. 

SCENE   I. 

SEVERANCE  strode  impatiently  up  and 
down  the  room  overlooking  the  ocean. 

"  i  Will  be  down  in  a  minute/  I  suppose 
that  means  the  usual  thirty  for  reflection 
and  contemplation  of  bric-^-brac.  What  a 
pretty  room.  No  bric-&-brac  in  it,  by  the 
way.  I  wonder  if  this  is  the  room  my  lady 
Jessica  is  said  to  have  furnished  to  suit  her- 
self. It  looks  like  a  woodland  glade.  She 
must  look  stunning  against  those  moss-green 
curtains.  I  wonder  how  the  madame  liked 
my  letter.  It  was  rather  brutal,  but  to  man- 
age a  witch  you  have  got  to  be  Jove  astride 
a  high  horse.  Here  she  comes,  I  know  that 
perfume.  She  uses  it  to  sweeten  the  venom 
of  those  snakes  of  hers." 

Mrs.  Pendleton  entered  and  gave  him  her 
hand  with  frank  welcome.  Her  "  snakes  " 


MRS.  PENDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-HAND.       213 

seemed  vibrant  with  life  and  defiance,  and 
her  individuality  pierced  through  her  white 
conventional  gown  like  a  solitary  star  in  a 
hueless  sky. 

(i  How  do  you  do  ?  "  she  said,  shaking  his 
hand  warmly  ;  then  she  sat  down  at  once  as 
as  a  matter  of  course. 

He  understood  the  manoeuvre,  and — 

"Let  us  play  chess  by  all  means,"  he  said, 
and  took  a  chair  opposite.  "  Your  seclusion 
has  done  you  good,"  he  added,  smiling  as 
the  crest  of  a  wave  appeared  in  her  eyes, 
"you  have  lost  your  fagged  look  and  look 
more  like  a  girl  than  a  widow.  Dissipation 
does  not  agree  with  you.  Two  more  win- 
ters, and  you  would  be  that  most  hopeless  of 
horrors,  a  faded  blonde.  You  would  try  to 
make  up  for  it  by  your  wit,  and  then  your 
nose  would  get  sharp,  and  you  would  have  a 
line  down  the  middle  of  your  forehead  and 
another  on  each  side  of  your  mouth." 

"  You  are  as  rude  as  ever,"  said  Jessica 
coldly,  but  the  wave  in  her  eyes  threatened 
to  become  tidal.  "  If  you  marry  a  blonde 


MRS.  PENDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-HAND. 

and  incarcerate  her,  however,  you  may  find 
the  effect  more  bleaching  than  society." 

u  Was  that  a  reflection  upon  my  own  so- 
ciety ?  You  are  becoming  a  real  repartee 
fiend.  I  do  not  incarcerate.  I  only  warn." 

"So  do  I,"  said  Mrs.  Pendleton,  significant- 
ly;  "I  have  occasionally  gotten  the  best  of 
a  bad  bargain." 

"  And  as  you  will  find  me  the  worst  you 
have  ever  had  you  are  already  on  the  defen- 
sive," said  Severance,  with  a  laugh.  "  Come, 
I  have  not  seen  you  for  six  months  and  I  am 
really  hard  hit.  I  wrote  you  that  I  marked 
off  each  day  with  a  pencil — a  red  one  at 
that;  I  bought  it  for  the  occasion.  Don't 
take  a  base  advantage  of  the  admission,  but 
give  me  one  kind  syllable.  I  ask  for  it  as 
humbly  as  a  dog  does  for  a  bone." 

"  You  do,  indeed.  I  began  by  making  dis- 
agreeable remarks  about  your  personal  ap- 
pearance, did  I  not  ?  If  you  will  be  a  brute 
I  will  be  a — cat." 

"  You  will  acquit  yourself  with  credit. 
But  I  will  not  quarrel  with  you  to-day." 


MRS.  PENDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-HAND.       215 

He  rose  suddenly  and  went  over  to  her,  but 
she  was  already  on  her  feet.  She  dropped 
her  eyes,  then  raised  them  appealingly,  but 
the  sea  was  level. 

"  Do  not  kiss  me,"  she  said. 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  I  would  rather  not — yet.  Do  you  know 
that  I  have  never  kissed  a  man — a  lover,  I 
mean — in  my  life  ?  And  this  is  so  sudden — 
I  would  rather  wait." 

He  raised  her  hand  chivalrously  to  his 
lips.  "  I  will  wait,"  he  said  ;  "  but  you  will 
wear  my  ring  ?  "  And  he  took  a  circlet  from 
his  pocket  and  slipped  it  on  her  finger. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said,  simply,  and  touched 
it  with  a  little  caressing  motion. 

He  dropped  her  hand  and  stepped  back. 
Miss  Decker  had  pushed  aside  the  portiere. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Severance  ?  "  she 
said,  cordially  ;  "I  did  not  interrupt  even 
to  congratulate  you,  but  to  take  Jessica 
away  for  a  moment.  My  dear,  your  dress- 
maker came  down  on  the  train  with  Mr. 
Severance  and  has  but  a  minute.  You  had 


21 G      MRS.  PENDLETON'8  FOUR-IN-HAND. 

better  go  at  once,  for  you  know  her  temper 
is  none  of  the  sweetest." 

"  Provoking  old  thing,"  said  Jessica,  with 
a  pout.  It  was  the  fourth  mood  to  which 
she  had  treated  Severance  in  this  short  inter- 
view, and  he  looked  at  her  with  delight. 
"  But  I  will  get  rid  of  her  as  soon  as  possi- 
ble. Will  you  excuse  me  for  a  few  mo- 
ments ?  I  will  be  back  in  ten,  sure." 

"  A  dressmaker  is  the  only  tyrant  to 
whom  I  bow,  the  only  foe  before  whom  Hay 
down  my  arms.  Go  ;  but  come  back  soon/' 

"  In  ten  minutes." 

"  Which  is  it,  and  where  is  he  ? "  she  whis- 
pered, eagerly,  as  they  crossed  the  hall. 

"  Mr.  Trent.     He  is  in  the  library." 

SCENE  n. 

TKENT  was  standing  before  a  bust  of  Dan- 
iel Webster,  speculating  how  his  own  profile 
would  look  in  bronze. 

"  You  would  have  to  shave  off  your  side 
whiskers,"  murmured  a  soft  voice  behind  him. 

He  turned  with  a  nervous  start,  and  a  sus- 


MRS.  PENDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-HAND.      217 

picion  of  color  appeared  under  his  gray  skin. 
Mrs.  Peridleton  was  standing  with  her  hands 
resting  lightly  on  the  table.  She  smiled  with 
saucy  dignity,  an  art  she  had  brought  to  per- 
fection. 

"  I  give  you  five  years,"  she  said. 

"  With  you  to  help  me,"  he  cried,  enthusi- 
astically. "  Ah  !  I  see  you  now,  leaning  on 
the  arm  of  a  foreign  ambassador,  going  in  to 
some  grand  diplomatic  dinner." 

"  It  is  too  bad  I  shall  have  to  take  the 
arm  of  a  small  one ;  you  will  be  but  the 
American  minister,  you  know.  [Great  heav- 
en !  how  determined  he  looks ;  I  know  he 
means  to  kiss  me.  If  I  can  only  keep  his 
ambition  going.]  " 

"  I  will  be  senator  first  and  pass  a  bill 
placing  this  country  on  an  equal  diplomatic 
footing  with  the  proudest  in  Europe.  You 
will  then  go  to  your  legation  as  the  wife  of 
an  ambassador." 

"  I  know  you  will  accomplish  it.  And  let 
it  be  Paris.  I  cannot  endure  to  shop  any- 
where else." 


218      MRS.  PENDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-HAND. 

"  It  shall  be  Paris." 

"  Are  you  not  tired  ?  "  she  asked,  hur- 
riedly. 

"  Tired  ?     I  have  not  thought  of  fatigue." 

"  The  day  is  so  warm." 

"  I  have  not  felt  it.     Jessica  !  " 

"  O — h — h — h  !  "  and  catching  her  face 
convulsively  in  her  hand  she  sank  into  a 
chair. 

"What  is  it  ?  What  is  it  ? "  he  cried,  hop- 
ping about  her  like  an  agitated  spicier,  the 
tip  of  his  nose  punctuating  his  excitement. 
"  What  can  I  do  ?  Are  you  ill  1  " 

Faintly :  "  Neuralgia." 

"What  shall  I  ring  for?  Antipyrine? 
Horseradish  for  your  wrists  ?  Belladonna  ? 
What  ? " 

"  Nothing.  Sit  down  and  talk  to  me  and 
perhaps  it  will  go  away.  Tell  me  something 
about  yourself  and  I'll  forget  it.  Sit  down." 

"  There  is  but  little  to  tell.  I  have  been 
busy  making  friends  against  the  next  elec- 
tion. I  have  addressed  several  meetings  with 
great  success.  I  have  every  chance  for  the 


MHS.  PENDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-HAND.      219 

house  this  time — for  the  senate  next  term. 
How's  your  face  ?  " 

"  Misery  !  You  said  that  several  of  my 
old  friends  came  down  with  you.  How 
odd !  " 

u  Was  it  not  ? " 

"  I  suppose  they  will  all  come  to  see 
me." 

"  Hm.  I  don't  know.  Doubt  if  they 
know  you  are  here.  I  shall  not  tell  them. 
They  would  only  be  coming  to  see  you  and 
getting  in  my  way.  I'll  wait  until  our  wed- 
ding-day approaches,  and  ask  them  to  be 
ushers.  But  now,  Jessica,  that  you  do  not 
seem  to  suffer  so  acutely " 

"Oh!  Oh!  [Thank  Heaven,  I  hear 
Edith.]  " 

Trent  sprang  to  his  feet  in  genuine  alarm. 
"  Dearest !  Let  me  go  for  the  doctor.  I 
cannot  stand  this 

Miss  Decker  entered  with  apparent  haste, 
spoke  to  Trent,  then  stopped  abruptly. 

"  Jessica  !  "  she  cried.  "  What  is  the 
matter  \ " 


220      MBS.  PENDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-HAND. 

"My  face.  You  know  how  I  have  suf- 
fered. Worse  than  ever." 

"  Oh,  you  poor  dear  !  She  is  such  a  mar- 
tyr, Mr.  Trent,  with  that  tooth " 

"  Neuralgia !  " 

"  T  mean  neuralgia.  She  was  up  all  night. 
But,  my  dear,  don't  think  me  ,a  heartless 
fiend,  but  you  must  see  your  lawyer.  He  is 
here  with  those  deeds  for  you  to  sign,  and  he 
says  that  he  must  catch  the  train." 

"  That  estate  has  given  me  so  much  trou- 
ble," murmured  Mrs.  Pendleton,  wretchedly, 
"  and  how  can  I  talk  business  when  my  head 
is  on  the  rack  ?  I  do  not  wish  to  leave  Mr. 
Trent  so  soon,  either." 

"  Leave  Mr.  Trent  to  me.  I  will  entertain 
him.  I  will  talk  to  him  about  you.'' 

"  May  I  speak  to  you  one  moment  before 
you  go  ? ''  asked  Trent. 

"  Yes,"  pinching  her  lips  with  extremest 
pain,  "  you  need  not  mind  Edith." 

"Not  in  the  least."  He  took  a  box  from 
his  pocket  with  an  air  of  resignation  which 
boded  well  for  the  trials  of  a  diplomatic 


MRS.  PENDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-HAND.      221 

career.  "  I  cannot  wait  longer  to  fetter  you. 
You  told  me  once  that  the  emerald  was  your 
favorite  stone." 

She  relaxed  her  lips  and  swept  her  lashes 
down  and  up  rapturously.  u  So  good  of 
you  to  remember,"  she  murmured ;  "  it  re- 
minds me  of  mermaids  and  things,  and  I 
love  it." 

"  You  were  always  so  poetical !  But 
where  did  you  get  that  ring  ?  I  thought 
you  never  wore  rings.  On  your  engagement 
finger,  too  ?  " 

"  It  was  a  present  from  grandma,  and  I 
wear  it  to  please  her.  I'll  slip  it  in  my 
pocket  now — it  is  too  large  for  any  other 
finger — and  you  can  put  yours  where  it  be- 
longs." 

"  You  will  never  take  it  off  until  you  need 
its  place  for  your  wedding  ring  ?  " 

"  Never !  " 

"  Angel !  And  your  face  is  better  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  but  Editli  is  looking  directly  this 
way." 


222      MRS.  PENDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-HAND. 
SCENE   III. 

MRS.  PENDLETON  entered  the  drawing 
room  on  tiptoe,  with  hand  upraised. 

"  Well !  the  sky  did  not  fall,  and  the 
train  did  not  ditch,  and  the  lightning  did 
not  strike,  and  we  are  neither  of  us  dead. 
And  you — you  look  as  strapping  as  a  West 
Point  cadet.  Fie  upon  your  principles." 

"  That  is  a  charming  tirade  with  which  to 
greet  an  impatient  lover,"  cried  Boswell, 
with  beaming  face.  "  You  are  serious,  of 
course  ?  " 

"You  have  heard  the  parable  of  a  wo- 
man's { No '  ? "  She  gave  both  his  out- 
stretched hands  a  little  shake,  then  retreated 
behind  a  chair,  and  rested  both  arms  on  its 
back. 

"  My  anger  is  appeased,  but  I  think  I  am 
entitled  to  some  recompense." 

"  What  can  he  mean  ?  Would  you  prefer 
sherry  or  red  wine  ?  " 

"  There  is  a  draught  brewed  upon  Olym- 
pus, which  the  gods  call  nectar " 


MRS.  PENDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-HAND.      223 

"  So  sorry.  We  are  just  out.  I  gave  the 
last  thimbleful  away  an  hour  ago." 

"  Oh,  you  did  !  May  I  enquire  to  whom 
you  gave  it  ?  " 

"You  may,  indeed.  And  I  would  tell 
you — could  I  only  remember." 

"  Provoking — goddess  !  But  perhaps  you 
will  allow  me  to  look  for  myself.  Perchance 
I  might  find  a  drop  or  two  remaining.  I  am 
willing  to  take  what  I  can  get  and  be  thank- 
ful." 

"  [Then  you  will  never  get  much.]  "  The 
dregs  are  always  bitter." 

"  There  can  be  no  dregs  to  the  nectar  in 
question." 

"  And  the  last  drop  always  goes  to  the 
head.     I   have   heard   it  asserted   upon  au- 
thority.    Think  of  the  scandal — the  butler— 
oh,  Heaven  !  " 

"  The  intoxication  would  make  me  but 
tread  the  air.  I  should  walk  right  over  the 
butler's  head.  Where  did  you  get  that 
ring?" 

"  Is  it  not  lovely  ?     It  was  " — heaving  a 


MRS.  PENDLETON'S  FOUR  IN-HAND. 

profound  sigh — "  the  last  gift  of  poor  dear 
Mr.  Pendleton." 

"  Indeed  !  Well,  under  the  circumstances, 
perhaps  you  will  not  mind  removing  it  and 
wearing  that  of  another  unfortunate,"  and 
he  placed  one  knee  on  the  chair  over  which 
she  leaned,  and  produced  a  ring. 

"  Not  at  all.  What  a  beauty  !  How  did 
you  know  that  the  ruby  was  my  favorite 
stone  ?  "  And  she  bent  her  body  backward, 
under  pretence  of  holding  the  stone  up  to 
the  light. 

"  But  you  have  a  number  of  rubies  and 
pearls  in  your  possession  of  which  I  consider 
myself  the  rightful  owner.  Shall  I  have  to 
call  in  the  law  to  give  me  mine  own  ? " 

"  The  pearls  are  sharp,  and  the  rubies 
may  be  paste.  I  have  the  best  of  the  bar- 
gain." 

"  I  am  a  connoisseur  on  the  subject  of 
precious  stones — of  precious  articles  of  all 
sorts,  in  fact.  What  an  outrageous  coquette 
you  are  !  What  is  the  use  of  keeping  a 
man  in  misery  ?  " 


MRS.  PENDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-HAND.       225 

"  Why  are  men  always  in  such  a  hurry  ? 
If  I  were  a  man  now — and  an  author — I 
would  wait  for  moonlight,  waves  breaking 
on  rocks,  and  all  the  rest  of  it." 

"All  the  old  property  business,  in  short, 
I  am  both  a  man  and  an  author,  therefore  I 
know  the  folly  of  delay  in  this  short  life." 

"But  suppose  the  door  should  open  sud- 
denly?" 

"  I  have  been  here  ten  minutes  and  it  has 
not  opened  yet." 

"  But  it  might,  you  know ;  and  the  small 
boys  of  this  house  are  an  exaggeration  of  all 
that  have  gone  before.  Ah  !  here  conies 
someone.  Sit  down  on  that  chair  in- 
stantly." 

Miss  Decker  'entered  and  looked  depre- 
catingly  at  Boswell. 

"  You  have  come  at  last,"  she  said.  "  We 
were  afraid  something  had  happened  to  you. 
I  cannot  help  this  interruption,  Jessica. 
Your  grandmother  is  here  and  wants  to  see 
you  immediately.  She  has  been  telegraphed 
for  to  go  to  Philadelphia ;  Mrs.  Armstrong 

15 


22G      MBS.  PENDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-HAND. 

is  very  ill.  I  would  not  keep  her  wait- 
ing."  ' 

"Poor  grandma!  To  think  of  her  being 
obliged  to  go  to  Philadelphia  in  September. 
Where  is  she  ?  " 

"  In  the  yellow  reception-room.  Mr.  Bos- 
well  will  excuse  you  for  a  few  minutes." 

Boswell  bowed,  his  face  stamped  with 
gloom. 

"  What  have  you  done  with  the  others  ? " 
asked  Jessica,  as  she  closed  the  door. 

"  Mr.  Severance  is  storming  up  and  down 
the  sea-room,  Mr.  Trent  is  like  a  caged  lion 
in  the  library ;  I  expect  to  hear  a  crash 
every  minute.  But  both  know  what  law- 
yers arid  dressmakers  mean.  Boswell  will 
learn  something  of  grandmothers.  But  they 
are  safe  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  longer. 
Trust  all  to  me." 

SCENE    IV. 

DEDHAM  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  one  of 
the  reception-room  chairs,  locking  and  un- 
locking his  fingers  until  his  hands  were  as 


MRS.  PENDLETON'8  FOUR-IN-HAND.       2'JT 

red  as  those  of  a  son  of  toil.  He  was  nerv- 
ous, happy,  terrified,  annoyed. 

"  That  beastly  porter  to  keep  me  waiting 
so  long  for  my  portmanteau,"  he  almost 
cried  aloud.  "  What  must  she  think  of  me  ? 
And  I  forgot  my  slip.  Severance  will  have 
his  on  this  afternoon,  I  know,  and  I  might 
have  been  the  first  to  wear  it  in  Newport. 
She  won't  see  him,  though,  thank  Heaven  !  " 
He  examined  his  unornamented  vest  in  an 
opposite  mirror  and  shrugged  his  shoulders 
with  an  air  of  resignation.  He  must  be 
content  to  look  as  if  he  had  one  waistcoat 
on  instead  of  two.  "  And  that  new  cosme- 
tique  for  my  mustache.  How  could  I  have 
been  so  stupid  as  to  forget  it  ?  She'll  not 
be  able  to  see  it.  I  can't  be  pulling  at  it 
all  the  time,  I've  twisted  it  almost  out, 
already.  But  she  won't  mind,  for  she  adores 
—ah!" 

"  You  wicked  boy,"  said  Mrs.  Pendleton, 
with  gentle  reproach.  "  What  made  you  so 
late?  I  was  just  about  to  send  and  inquire 
if  anything  had  happened  to  you.  But  sit 


228      MRS.  PENDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-IIAND. 

down.  How  tired  you  must  be.  Would 
you  like  a  glass  of  sherry  and  a  biscuit  ?  " 

"  Nothing  !  Nothing  !  You  know  it's 
not  my  fault  that  I'm  late.  My  portman- 
teau got  mislaid  and  my  travelling  clothes 
were  so  dusty.  And  you  really  are  glad  to 
see  me  ?  " 

"  What  a  question !  It  makes  me  feel 
young  again  to  see  you." 

"  Young  again  !     You  !  " 

"  I  am  twenty-four,  Teddy,  and  a  widow," 
and  she  shook  her  head  sadly.  "  I  feel 
fearfully  old — like  your  mother.  I  have 
had  so  much  care  and  responsibility  in  my 
life,  and  you  are  so  careless  and  debonair." 

"You'll  make  me  cry  in  a  minute,"  said 
Teddy,  u  and  I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  like 
that.  You  seem  to  put  a  whole  Adirondack 
between  us." 

l(  I  can't  help  it !  Perhaps  I'll  get  over 
it  after  a  time.  It's  so  sad  being  mewed 
up  six  whole  months  ! " 

"Then  marry  me  right  off.  That's  just 
the  point.  We'll  go  and  travel  and  have  a 


MRS.  PENDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-HAND.       229 

jolly  good  time.  "That'll  brace  you  up  and 
make  you  feel  as  young  as  you  look." 

"  I  can't,  Teddy.  I  must  wait  a  year  in 
common  decency.  Think  how  people  would 
talk/7 

"  Let  'em.  They'll  soon  find  something 
else  and  forget  us.  Marry  me  next  month." 

"  Next  month— well- 

"  It  would  be  rather  fun  to  be  the  hero 
and  heroine  of  a  sensation,  anyhow.  That's 
what  everybody's  after.  You're  just  a 
nonentity  until  you've  been  blackguarded  in 
the  papers.  Whose  ring  is  that  ?  " 

"  One  of  Edith's.  I  put  it  on  to  remem- 
ber something  by." 

"  Well,  take  it  off  and  wear  this  instead. 
It'll  help  your  memory  just  as  well." 

"  What,  a  solitaire  !  " 

"  I  knew  you  would  prefer  it.  I  know  all 
your  tastes  by  instinct." 

"You  do,  Teddy.  Colored  stones  are  so 
tiresome." 

"  By  the  way,  I  think  your  old  admirer, 
Severance,  must  be  about  to  put  himself  in 


230      MRS.  PENDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-HAND. 

silken  fetters,  as  Bosweil  would  say.  I 
caught  him  buying  an  unusually  fine  sapphire 
in  Tiffany's  yesterday.  Said  it  was  for  his 
sister.  Hm — hm." 

"  .Rather.     I  wonder  who  it  can  be  ?  " 

"Don't  know.  Hasn't  looked  at  a  wom- 
an since  you  left.  But  I  have  a  strong  sus- 
picion that  it  is  some  one  here  in  New- 
port." 

"  Here — I  wonder — if  it  can  be  Edith  ? " 

"  Miss  Decker  ?  Sure  enough.  Never 
seemed  to  pay  her  much  attention,  though. 
She's  not  my  style — too  much  like  sixteen 
dozen  other  New  York  girls." 

He  buttoned  up  his  coat,  braced  himself 
against  it  and  gave  his  mustache  a  frantic 
twist. 

"  Mrs. — Jessica  !  "  he  ejaculated  desper- 
ately, "  you  are  engaged  to  me — won't  you 
— won't  you " 

She  drew  herself  up  and  glanced  down 
upon  him  from  her  higher  chair  with  a  look 
of  sad  disapproval. 

"  I  did  not  think  it  of  you,  Teddy,"  she 


MRS.  PENDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-IIAND.      231 

said.  "  And  it  is  one  of  the  things  of  which 
I  have  never  approved." 

"  But  why  not  ? "  asked  Teddy,  feebly. 

"I  thought  you  knew  me  better  than  to 
ask  such  a  question." 

"  I  know  you  are  an  angel — oh,  hang  it  ! 
You  do  make  me  feel  as  if  you  were  my 
mother." 

"  Now,  don't  be  unreasonable,  or  I  shall 
believe  that  you  are  a  tyrant.'* 

"  A  tyrant  ?  I  ?  Herri — no,  I  wish  I 
was.  What  a  model  of  propriety  you  are. 
I  never  should  have  thought  it — I  mean — 
darling !  you  were  always  such  a  coquette, 
you  know.  Not  that  I  ever  thought  so. 
You  know  I  never  did — oh,  hang  it  all — but 
if  I  let  you  have  your  own  way  in  this  un- 
reasonable— I  mean  your  perfectly  natural 
whim — -you  might  at  least  promise  to  marry 
me  in  a  month.  And  indeed  I  think  that  if 
you  are  an  angel  I  am  a  saint." 

"  Well,  on  one  condition." 

"  Any  !  Any  !  " 

"  It  must  be  an  absolute  secret  until  the 


232      MRS.  PENDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-HAND. 

wedding  is  over.  I  hate  congratulations, 
and  if  we  are  going  to  have  a  sensation  we 
might  as  well  have  a  good  concentrated  one." 

"  I  agree  with  you,  and  I'll  never  find  fault 
with  you  again.  You " 

Miss  Decker  almost  ran  into  the  room. 

"  Jessica,"  she  cried.  "  Oh,  dear  Mr.  Ded- 
ham,  how  are  you  ?  Jessica,  mother  has  one 
of  her  terrible  attacks,  and  I  must  ask  you  to 
stay  with  her  while  I  go  for  the  doctor  my- 
self. I  cannot  trust  servants." 

"Let  me  go  !  let  me  go  !  "  cried  Teddy. 
"  I'll  bring  him  back  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 
Who  shall " 

"  Coleman.     He  lives 

"  I  know.  Au  revoir,"  and  the  girls  were 
alone. 

"  There  ! ''  exclaimed  Miss  Decker,  "  we 
have  got  rid  of  him.  Now  for  the  others. 
You  slip  upstairs  and  I'll  dispose  of  them  one 
by  one.  You  are  taken  suddenly  ill.  Teddy 
will  not  be  back  for  an  hour.  Dr.  Coleman 
has  moved." 


V. 


A  LAMP  burned  in  the  sea-room,  and  the 
two  girls  were  sitting  in  their  evening  gowns 
before  a  bright  log  fire.  Miss  Decker  was  in 
white  this  time — an  elaborate  French  concoc- 
tion of  embroidered  muslin  which  made  her 
look  like  an  expensive  fashion  plate.  Jessica 
wore  a  low-cut  black  crepe,  above  which  she 
rose  like  carven  ivory  and  brass.  The  snakes 
to-night  were  held  in  place  by  diamond  hair- 
pins that  glittered  like  baleful  eyes.  In  her 
lap  sparkled  four  rings. 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?  "  she  exclaimed.  "  If 
my  life  depended  upon  it  I  could  not  remem- 
ber who  gave  me  which." 

"Let  us  think.  What  sort  of  a  stone 
would  a  politician  be  most  likely  to  choose  ?  " 

Mrs.  Pendleton  laughed.  "  A  good  idea. 
If  couleur  de  rose  be  synonymous  with  con- 


234      MRS.  PENDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-HAND. 

ceit,  then  I  think  the  ruby  must  have  come 
from  Mr.  Trent." 

"  I  am  sure  of  it.  And  as  your  author  is 
always  in  the  dumps,  I  am  certain  he  takes 
naturally  to  the  sapphire." 

"  But  the  emerald " 

"Is  emblematical  of  your  deluded  Teddy. 
The  solitaire  therefore  falls  naturally  to  Mr. 
Severance.  Well,  now  that  you  have  got 
through  the  first  interviews  in  safety,  what 
are  you  going  to  do  next? '' 

"  Edith,  I  do  not  know.  They  are  all  so 
dreadfully  in  earnest  that  I  believe  I  shall 
finally  take  to  my  heels  in  downright  terror. 
But  no,  I  won't,  I'll  come  out  of  it  with  the 
upper  hand  and  save  my  reputation  as  an 
actress.  I  will  keep  it  up  for  two  or  three 
days  more,  but  after  that  it  will  be  impos- 
sible. They  are  bound  to  meet  here  sooner 
or  later.  Thank  Heaven,  we  are  rid  of  them 
for  to-night,  at  least !  " 

The  man-servant  threw  back  the  portiere. 

"  Mr.  Trent," 

"  Heavens ! ''     cried     Edith    under     her 


MRS.  PENDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-HAND.      235 

breath,  "  I  forgot  to  give  orders  that  we 
were  not  receiv — how  do  you  do,  Mr. 
Trent  ? " 

"  And  which  is  his  ring  ?  "  Jessica  made 
a  frenzied  dab  at  the  jewels  in  her  lap.  She 
slipped  the  sapphire  on  her  finger,  and  hid 
the  others  under  a  cushion.  Trent,  who  had 
been  detained  a  moment  by  Miss  Decker, 
advanced  to  her. 

"  It  is  very  soon  to  come  again,"  he  said, 
"  but  I  simply  had  to  call  and  inquire  if  you 
felt  better.  I  am  delighted  to  see  that  you 
apparently  do." 

"  I  am  better,  thank  you."  Her  voice  was 
rather  weak.  "  It  was  good  of  you  to  come 
again." 

"  Whose  ring  is  that !  " 

"  Why— a— to— sure— 

"  Jessica  !  "  cried  Miss  Decker,  "  have  you 
gone  off  with  my  ring  again  ?  You  are  so 
absent-minded.  I  hunted  for  that  ring  high 
and  low." 

"You  should  not  be  so  good-natured,  and 
my  memory  would  turn  over  a  new  leaf. 


236       MRS.  PENDLETON'S  FOUR  IN-HAND. 

Here — take  it."  She  tossed  the  ring  to  Miss 
Decker,  and  raised  her  eyes  guiltily  to 
Trent's.  "  Shall  I  go  up  and  get  the  other  ?  " 

"  No.  But  I  thought  you  promised  never 
to  take  it  off." 

"I  forgot  that  water  ruins  stones." 

"  Well,  it  is  a  consolation  to  know  that 
water  does  not  ruin  a  certain  plain  gold  circ- 
let." 

"Mr.  Boswell." 

Jessica  gasped  and  looked  at  the  flames. 
A  crisis  had  come.  Would  she  be  clever 
enough  ?  Then  the  situation  stimulated  her. 
She  held  out  her  hand  to  Boswell. 

"You  have  come  to  see  me,"  she  cried, 
delightedly.  "  Mr.  Trent  has  just  been  tell- 
ing us  that  you  came  down  with  him,  and  I 
hoped  you  would  call  soon." 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure — to  be  sure.  You  might 
have  known  I  would  call  soon."  He  bowed 
stiffly  to  Trent,  and  seating  himself  close  be- 
side Jessica,  murmured  in  her  ear  :  "  Cannot 
you  get  rid  of  that  fellow  ?  How  did  he  find 
you  out  so  soon  ?  " 


MRS.  PENDLETON' 8  FOUR-IN-HAND.       237 

"  Why,  he  came  to  see  Edith,  of  course. 
Do  you  not  remember  how  devoted  he  al- 
ways was  to  her  ?  " 

"  I  do  not " 

"May  I  ask  what  you  are  whispering 
about,  Mr.  Boswell?"  demanded  Trent, 
breaking  from  Miss  Decker.  "  Is  he  confid- 
ing to  you  the  astounding  success  of  his  last 
novel,  Mrs.  Pendleton?  or  was  it  a  history 
of  the  United  States  ?  I  really  forget." 

"  Not  the  last,  certainly.  I  leave  it  to  you 
to  make  history — an  abridged  edition.  My 
ambition  is  a  more  humble  one." 

"  Oh,  you  will  both  need  biographers," 
said  Mrs.  Pendleton,  who  was  beginning  to 
enjoy  herself.  "  I  will  give  you  an  idea. 
Join  the  theosophists.  Arrange  for  rein- 
carnation. Come  back  in  the  next  genera- 
tion and  write  your  own  biographies.  Then 
your  friends  and  families  cannot  complain 
that  you  have  not  had  justice  done  you." 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  "  said  Trent. 

"  You  are  as  cruel  as  ever,"  said  Boswell 
with  a  sigh.  ("  Where  is  my  ring  ?  ") 


238      MRS.  PENDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-HAND. 

"  It  was  so  large  that  I  could  not  keep  it 
on.  I  must  have  a  guard  made." 

"Dear  little  fingers " 

"  You  may  never  have  been  taught  when 
you  were  a  small  boy,  Mr.  Boswell,"  ex- 
claimed Trent,  "  that  it  is  rude  to  whisper 
in  company.  Therefore,  to  save  your  man- 
ners in  Mrs.  Pendleton's  eyes,  I  will  do  you 
the  kindness  to  prevent  further  lapse.'7  And 
he  seated  himself  on  the  other  side  of  Jes- 
sica and  glared  defiantly  at  Bos  well. 

"  Mr.  Severance  and  Mr.  Dedham." 

Severance  entered  hurriedly.  "  I  am  so 
glad  to  hear — ah,  Boswell  !  Trent !  " 

"  How  odd  that  you  should  all  find  your 
way  here  the  very  first  evening  of  your 
arrival  !  "  And  Jessica  held  out  her  hand 
with  a  placid  smile.  Miss  Decker  was  more 
nervous,  but  the  training  of  five  seasons 
stood  her  in  good  stead.  "  Ah  !  "  continued 
Mrs.  Pendleton,  "  and  Mr.  Dedham,  too ! 
This  is  a  most  charming  reunion." 

"  Charming  beyond  expression  !  "  said 
Severance. 


MRS.  PENDLE  TON'S  FOUR-IN-HAND.      239 

Bo  swell  and  Trent  being  obliged  to  rise 
when  Miss  Decker  went  forward  to  meet 
the  newcomers,  Severance  took  the  former's 
chair,  Dedham  that  of  the  future  statesman. 

"  You  are  better  ?  "  whispered  Severance. 
"  I  have  been  anxious." 

"  Oh !  I  have  been  worried  to  death," 
murmured  Teddy  in  her  other  ear.  "  That 
wretched  doctor  had  not  only  moved  but 
gone  out  of  town ;  and  when  I  came  back  at 
last,  and  found— 

"  Mr.  Severance,"  exclaimed  Trent,  "  you 
have  my  chair." 

"  Is  this  your  chair  ?  You  have  good 
taste.  A  remarkably  comfortable  chair." 

"  You  would  oblige  me " 

"  By  keeping  it  ?  Certainly.  You  were 
ever  generous,  but  that  I  believe  is  a  char- 
acteristic of  genius." 

"  Mrs.  Pendleton,"  said  Boswell,  plaintive- 
ly, "  as  Mr.  Dedham  has  taken  my  chair,  I 
will  take  this  stool  at  your  feet." 

Trent  was  obliged  to  lean  his  elbow  on 
the  mantelpiece,  for  want  of  a  better  view 


240       MRS.  PENDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-HAND. 

of  Mrs.  Pendleton,  and  Miss  Decker  sat  on 
the  other  side  of  Dedham. 

"  How  are  you,  Teddy  ?  "  she  said. 
' "  Fine.      You   must   let   me   congratulate 
you." 

"  For  what  3  " 

"I  see  you  wear  Severance's  ring.  Ah, 
Sev,  did  the  ring  suit  your  sister  ?  " 

"  To  a  T.  Said  it  was  her  favorite  stone." 
He  stopped  abruptly.  "  What  the  dev — •" 
this  below  his  breath,  and  Jessica  whispered 
hurriedly  : 

"  Edith  was  looking  at  it  when  Mr.  Trent 
came  in,  and  forgot  to  return  it." 

"  Ah  !  Boswell,  I  am  sure  you  are  sitting 
on  Mrs.  Pendleton's  foot.  By  the  way, 
how's  your  aunt  ?  " 

"  Dead— better." 

"  I  wonder  you  could  tear  yourself  away 
so  soon,"  said  Trent,  viciously.  "  You'd  bet- 
ter be  careful.  She  might  make  a  new 
will." 

"  Don't  worry.  I  spent  the  happiest  fif- 
teen minutes  of  my  life  with  her  this  after- 


MRS.  PENDLETON'8  FOUR-IN-HAND.       241 

noon.  She  promised  me  all/'  He  turned  to 
Severance.  u  You  have  been  breaking  hearts 
on  the  beach,  I  suppose." 

"  Which  is  better,  at  all  events,  than 
breaking  one's  head  against  a  stone  wall." 

"  Politics  brought  you  here,  Mr.  Trent,  I 
suppose,"  interrupted  Miss  Decker.  "  I  hear 
you  made  a  stirring  speech  the  other  night." 

"  I  did.  It  was  on  the  question  of  Rad- 
icalism in  the  Press  versus  Civil  Service 
Reform.  Something  must  be  done  to  revol- 
utionize this  hell — I  beg  pardon — this  hot- 
bed of  iniquity,  American  politics.  Such 
principles  need  courage  ;  but  when  the  hour 
comes  the  man  must  not  be  wanting " 

o 

"  That  was  all  in  the  paper  next  morning," 
drawled  Boswell.  "  Mrs.  Pendleton,  did  you 
receive  the  copy  of  my  new  book  I  sent  a 
fortnight  ago  ?  Unlike  many  of  my  others  I 
had  no  difficulty  in-  disposing  of  it.  It  was 
lighter,  brighter,  less  philosophy,  less- 
brains.  The  critics  understood  it,  therefore 
they  were  kind.  They  even  said " 

"Don't   quote    the    critics   for    Heaven's 

16 


242      MRS.  PENDLETON' S  FOUR-IN-HAND. 

sake  !  "  said  Severance.  "  It  is  enough  to 
have  read  them." 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Pendleton,"  exclaimed  Teddy, 
"  if  you  could  have  been  at  the  yacht  race. 
Such  excitement  ?  Such 

"To  change  the  subject,"  said  Trent,  with 
determination  in  his  eye,  "  Mrs.  Pendleton, 
did.  you  receive  all  the  marked  papers  I  sent 
you  containing  my  speeches,  especially  the 
one  on  Jesuitism  in  Politics  ?  " 

"  Don't  bother  Mrs.  Pendleton  with  poli- 
tics," exclaimed  Boswell,  whose  own  egotism 
was  kicking  against  its  bars.  "  You  did  not 
think  my  book  too  long,  did  you  ?  One  pur- 
blind critic  said 

"  Good-night,  Mrs.  Pendleton,"  said  Sev- 
erance, rising  abruptly.  "  Good-evening," 
and  he  bowed  to  Miss  Decker  and  to  the 
men.  Jessica  rose  suddenly  and  went  with 
him  to  the  door. 

"  I  am  going  to  walk  on  the  cliffs — '  Forty 
Steps' — at  eleven  to-morrow,"  she  said,  as 
she  gave  him  her  hand.  "  This  may  be  un- 
conventional, but  /choose  to  do  it." 


MRS.  PENDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-HAND.       243 

He  bowed  over  her  hand.  "  Mrs.  Pendle- 
ton  will  only  have  set  one  more  fashion,"  he 
said.  "  I  shall  be  there." 

As  he  left  the  room  by  one  door,  Jessica 
crossed  the  room  and  opened  another. 

"  Good-night,"  she  said  to  the  astounded 
company,  and  withdrew. 


VI. 

SEVERANCE  sauntered  up  and  down  the 
"  Forty  Steps,"  the  repose  of  his  bearing  be- 
lying the  agitation  within. 

"  Why  on  earth  doesn't  she  come  ? "  he 
thought,  uneasily.  "  Can  she  be  ill  again  ? 
She  is  ten  minutes  behind  time  now.  What 
did  it  mean— all  those  fellows  there  last 
night  ?  She  looked  like  an  amused  spectator 
at  a  play,  and  Miss  Decker  was  nervous,  ac- 
tually nervous.  Damn  it !  Here  they  all 
come.  What  do  they  mean  by  keeping  un- 
der my  heels  like  this  ?  " 

Dedham,  Trent,  and  Boswell  strolled  up 
from  various  directions,  and  although  each 
had  expectation  in  his  eye,  neither  looked 
overjoyed  to  see  the  other.  There  were  four 
cold  nods,  a  dead  pause,  and  then  Teddy 
gave  a  little  cough. 

"Beautiful  after — I  mean  morning." 


MRS.  PENDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-HAND.      245 

"  It  is  indeed,"  said  Severance.  "  I  won- 
der you  are  not  taking  your  salt-water  con- 
stitutional." 

"  I  always  take  a  walk  in  the  morning," 
and  Teddy  glanced  nervously  over  his  shoul- 
der. 

Bos  well  and  Trent,  each  with  a  little  mis- 
sive burning  his  pocket,  turned  red,  fidgeted, 
glared  at  the  ocean  and  made  no  remark. 
Severance  darted  a  glance  at  each  of  the 
three  in  succession,  and  then  looked  at  the 
ground  with  a  contemplative  stare.  At  this 
moment  Mrs.  Pendleton  appeared. 

Three  of  the  men  advanced  to  meet  her 
with  an  awkward  attempt  at  surprise,  but 
she  waved  them  back. 

"  I  have  something  to  say  to  you,"  she 
said. 

The  cold  languor  of  her  face  had  given 
place  to  an  expression  of  haughty  triumph. 
A  gleam  of  conscious  power  lay  deep  in  her 
calmly  scornful  eyes.  The  final  act  in  the 
drama  had  come  and  the  denouement  should 
be  worthy  of  her  talents.  She  looked  like  a 


246      MRS.  PENDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-HAND. 

judge  who  had  smiled  encouragement  to  a 
guilty  defendant  only  to  confer  the  sentence 
of  capital  punishment  at  last. 

"  Gentlemen,"  she  said,  and  even  her  voice 
was  judicatorial,  "I  have  asked  you  all  to 
meet  me  here  this  morning" — three  angry 
starts,  but  she  went  on  unmoved — "  because 
I  came  to  the  conclusion  last  night  that  it  is 
quite  time  this  farce  should  end.  I  am  some- 
what bored  myself,  and  I  have  no  doubt  you 
are  so,  as  well.  Your  joke  was  a  clever  one, 
worthy  of  the  idle  days  of  autumn.  When  I 
received  your  four  proposals  by  the  same 
mail,  I  appreciated  your  wit — I  will  say 
more,  your  genius — and  felt  glad  to  do  any- 
thing I  could  to  contribute  to  your  amuse- 
ment, especially  as  all  the  world  is  away  in 
Europe,  and  I  knew  that  you  must  be  dull. 
So  I  accepted  each  of  you,  as  you  know,  had 
four  charming  interviews  and  one  memorable 
one  of  a  more  composite  nature ;  and  now 
that  we  have  all  agreed  that  the  spicy  and 
original  little  drama  has  run  its  length  I 
take  pleasure  in  restoring  your  rings." 


MRS.  PENDLETON 'S  FOUR-IN-HAND.       247 

She  took  from  her  handkerchief  a  beauti- 
ful little  casket  of  blue  oynx,  upon  which 
reposed  the  Pendleton  crest  in  blazing  dia- 
monds, and  touching  a  spring  revealed  four 
rings  sparkling  about  as  many  velvet  cush- 
ions. The  four  men  stood  speechless ; 
neither  dared  protest  his  sincerity  and  see 
ridicule  in  the  eyes  of  his  neighbor. 

Mrs.  Pendleton  dropped  her  judicial  air, 
and  taking  the  ruby  between  her  fingers, 
smiled  like  a  teacher  bestowing  a  prize. 

"  Mr.  Boswell,"  she  said,  "  I  believe  this 
belongs  to  you/'  and  she  handed  the  ring  to 
the  stupefied  author.  He  put  it  in  his  poc- 
ket with  never  a  word. 

She  raised  the  emerald.  "  Mr.  Trent,  this 
is  yours  ? — or  is  it  the  sapphire  ?  " 

"  The  emerald,"  snorted  Trent. 

She  dropped  it  in  his  nerveless  palm  with 
a  gracious  bend  of  the  head,  and  turned  to 
Teddy. 

"  You  gave  me  a  solitaire,  I  remember," 
she  said,  sweetly.  "A  most  appropriate 
gift,  for  it  is  the  ideal  life." 


243      MRS.  PENDLETON'8  FOUR-IN-IIAND. 

Teddy  looked  as  if  about  to  burst  into 
tears,  gave  her  one  beseeching  glance,  then 
took  his  ring  and  strode  feebly  over  the 
cliffs.  Trent  and  Boswell  hesitated  a  mo- 
ment, then  hurried  after. 

"  Jessica  held  the  casket  to  Severance,  with 
a  little  outward  sweep  of  her  wrist.  He 
took  it,  and  folding  his  arms  looked  at  her 
steadily.  A  tide  of  angry  color  rose  to  her 
hair,  then  she  turned  her  back  upon  him  arid, 
looking  out  over  the  water,  tapped  her  foot 
on  the  rocks. 

"  Why  do  you  not  go  ?  "  she  asked.  "  I 
hate  you  more  than  the  other  three  put  to- 
gether." 

"  No.     You  love  me." 

"  I  hate  you.  You  are  a  brute.  The  cool- 
est, the  rudest,  the  most  exasperating  man 
on  two  continents." 

"  That  is  the  reason  you  love  me.  My 
dear  Mrs.  Pendleton,"  he  continued,  taking 
the  ring  from  the  casket,  and  laying  the  lat- 
ter on  a  rock,  "  a  woman  of  brains  and  head- 
strong will — but  unegoistic — likes  a  brutal 


MRS.  PENDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-HAND.       249 

and  masterful  man.  An  egoistical  woman, 
whether  she  be  fool  or  brilliant,  likes  a  slave. 
The  reason  is  that  egoism,  not  being  a  femi-' 
nine  quality  primarily,  but  borrowed  from 
man,  places  its  fair  possessor  outside  of  her 
sex's  limitations  and  supplies  her  with  the 
satisfying  simulacrum  of  those  stronger  char- 
acteristics which  she  would  otherwise  look 
for  in  man.  You  are  not  an  egoist." 

He  took  her  hand  and  removed  her  glove 
in  spite  of  her  resistance. 

"  Don't  struggle.  You  would  only  look 
ridiculous  if  anyone  should  pass.  Besides,  it 
is  useless.  I  am  so  much  stronger. 

"  I  do  not  know  or  care  what  really  pos- 
sessed you  to  indulge  in  such  a  freak  as  to 
engage  yourself  to  four  men  at  once,"  he  con- 
tinued, slipping  the  ring  on  her  finger.  "  You 
had  your  joke,  and  I  hope  you  enjoyed  it. 
The  denouement  was  highly  dramatic.  As  I 
said  :  I  desire  no  explanation,  for  I  am  never 
concerned  with  anything  but  results.  And 
now — you  are  going  to  marry  me." 

"I  am  not,"  sobbed  Jessica, 


250      MRS.  PENDLETON'S  FOUR-IN-HAND. 

"  You  are."  He  glanced  about.  No  one 
was  in  sight  He  put  his  arm  about  her 
shoulders,  forcing  her  own  to  her  sides,  then 
bent  back  her  head  and  kissed  her  on  the 
mouth. 

"  Checkmate  !  "  he  said. 


THE    END. 


i  untu  fl  i  mu 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


£-1/69115643  sSJ  2  3  7  3— 3  A.  1 


3  2106  00206  2161 


